


Home for the Holidays

by oboe_dawn



Series: Celluloid Vokaya [2]
Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Catsquatch, Coal - Freeform, Community Christmas Party, Coworker Conflict, Dreaded Work Xmas Parties, First Christmas, Gen, Holiday Traditions, M/M, Shitty Relatives, horrible exes, not so secret santa
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-09
Updated: 2020-12-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:48:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 90,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22184368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oboe_dawn/pseuds/oboe_dawn
Summary: In the earliest days of Enterprise's five-year mission, Jim Kirk feels obligated to make his first winter holiday season as captain an occasion of friendship-building and reverie. Christmas party closing in, one important person hasn't RSVP'd. . .Despite warnings from long-serving crew members and the man himself, Kirk's not taking no for an answer. Come floods, fires, or madness, the captain has come to a decision: if Spock refuses to emerge from his shell and act like he might deign to coexist with all the new faces aboard the Enterprise, there is no recourse but to transfer the science officer to another ship.Will the command staff of the Federation's flagship emerge from these festivities in one piece or is this association doomed from the start?Home for the Holidaysis a stand-alone story set in theCelluloid Vokayauniverse and is a companion piece toThe Mair-rigolauya.
Relationships: Kirk/Spock Friendship
Series: Celluloid Vokaya [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1597444
Comments: 14
Kudos: 24





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is another repost from the K/S Archive. Thank you for reading!

Author’s Note:

While I'm not the type who gets into the holidays, something about this time of year set off a hypergraphic bonfire in my brain. I just hope my second foray into K/S fic is a fraction as interesting to all of you as my doorstop, The Mair-rigolauya, has turned out to be. As always, thank you!

  
  
  
“Quick, push him so he falls face-first in the snow.” Laughter. Laughter of the kind only unsupervised children are capable of, the kind that communicates more about the true disposition of individuals when they know they’ll never get caught, the kind of laughter that only ends in humiliation. The unnerving sound started with one boy before the infection spread to the other two.

“ _Smear the Queer_!” One of them shouted in the pitched voice of pre-adolescence.

“ _Smear the Queer_!” Another joined in.

The third, emerging from his guttural amusement, belted out, “ _You better run, Freakshow_.”

They were wolves, coordinated and versed on how to make their kill, leaping, snarling, dragging on the limbs of their prey until it stumbled and fell. Thin crusty layers of ice gouged and scraped skin. Hands pulled collars and hems, protection against the elements becoming a frigid straitjacket.

 _And they laughed._  
  
***

“ _I love Christmas. I love dec-or-ating trees_.” Jim Kirk’s sing-song reverberated throughout the tiny lift car. “ _I love hot chocolate and even things that make you freeze_. . .”

Spock tucked his hands behind his back and waited, patiently, for the transport to deposit he and his captain on the bridge of the USS Enterprise. He gave brief thought to inventing some kind of sickness that coincided with the festivities so that he might hide in his quarters and avoid the hubbub. Pity he was a terrible liar.

“ _I love peppermint just not gross little candy canes_.” Kirk looked over and offered the hint of a smile and a twinkling eye. “Don’t tell Bones I told you this, but he got you as his Secret Santa. The only kind of gift he knows how to give at these things is booze and he’s asked me what he should get you. Any hints?”

“I do not require a gift, Captain.”

“Humor the good doctor, won’t you? This is our first Christmas together as a crew and I’d like it if we could all have a good time. Don’t make me order you to participate.” Amused by his threat, a smirk settled over the human’s face.

Was that supposed to be a joke? Spock was still learning to interpret the behavior of this new crew. “Ask Mr. Scott about my Christmas predilections.”

“Where he’ll tell me Chris Pike couldn’t get you to join in on all the reindeer games come hell or high tea?. You know the saying about you can lead a horse to water?”

The first officer decided to let his silence speak on the subject.

  
  
  


Jim Kirk left engineering, Scotty’s advice fresh in his mind, _I’d just leave him alone, Sir. Socializing is not a pressing issue for him. And a night of being around us booze-hounds, a meal he can’t eat on account of being a vegetarian, and a bunch of cooing humans giving one another ugly sweaters, it’s that man’s idea of hell_.

He didn’t like that answer. He didn’t like that Spock came off as a visitor amongst his own crew. Kirk thought by purposely including his first officer in the holiday happenings that he’d build camaraderie between the Vulcan and some of the other officers aboard. He’d also wanted to use this as an excuse to get to know the guy a little better. Other than proving he was overqualified for his job, Spock was a blue-shirted enigma Jim sometimes played chess with. Not that there was a lot of talking or friendship-building during those matches.

Back in the lift and thinking his next stop was sick bay to tell Bones to bag it on the present, another person who could help popped into his head. He told the computer to send him to the deck that hosted most of the labs and research spaces for the so-called wet sciences. This was the realm of biologists, anatomists, and one of the other few hold-overs from Christopher Pike’s tenure as the previous captain of the Enterprise.

Bioarchaeology was run by a forensic anthropologist/pharmacologist who’d spent the early part of her career in London’s Metropolitan Police Service. When first he’d heard one of his new people was an honest-to-god Detective Sargeant, he’d wanted to meet her right away. Where he expected to find a British girl with a lovely accent, a Maggie, a Mary, or an Emma, he got Lt. Commander Sha’leyen Reynan instead. About all she had that fit his idea was an accent, but it didn’t come from a youth on Old Blighty.

It was easy to mistake her for a human who dyed her hair wild shades until you realized there was no way her ancestors crawled up out of the oceans on earth. Long, cranberry-colored curls, brownish skin with an olive undertone, Sha’leyen was a jarring sight. Then, when he got close, her beautiful face showed a spiderweb of scars. He’d yet to work up the nerve to ask what happened to her in some dreadful previous life.

“Good morning, Captain Kirk.” She said as he entered her office. Where other people were still settling in, her space was lived in, comfortable, and that granted him some ease. “I can clear off the love seat if you don’t want one of the chairs.”

The misshapen purple thing beneath a sagging bookshelf was supposed to be a love seat? Lumpy and frayed, it looked like it should have met with an incinerator years ago. He wisely chose a chair. “I was wondering if you could help me out with something?”

“I will see what I can do.” She regarded him not like she didn’t trust him, but he definitely knew he was in the same room as a cop.

“You’ve served with Mr. Spock for quite some time, so you probably know him better than anyone aboard. Dr. McCoy needs to figure out what to get our resident Vulcan for the gift exchange.” He didn’t like that she wrinkled her lip at him.

“I think it’s to everyone’s advantage that you pretend like Spock was never invited to your party and that you leave him be.”

While he’d not known Sha’leyen to be a joker, was she playing this for a laugh? He had a hard time reading her. She didn’t emote like a lot of people and mostly kept her feelings off her face, kind of like someone else he knew. . . “That’s—What makes you say that?”

“In our culture, the winter solstice is still called the Tevakh t’Sashasolaya, Death of the Outcast, the outcast being the shortened, leadened days of winter when the thieves and assassins used the dark to hide their trade. The diametric opposition to that are the productive and safer summers. We never got around to recasting the meaning to something brighter because the Reform happened first.”

What had she just told him? “Pardon my ignorance, Lt. Commander, but what’s that got to do with our Christmas party?”

“Unlike humanity, we’ve never viewed this time of year as a cause for celebration. For centuries, it meant hiding out and avoiding becoming the victim of violent crime. In modern existence, it’s just another day.”

“Who is the we you keep mentioning?”

She could have come out and asked if he was slow but kept any such thoughts to herself. “Vulcans, or in my case, Vulcanids.”

Was he missing something? Kirk worked on the bridge with this person about one day a week since he’d assumed the captaincy and didn’t know what she was on about. He’d thought, her being a Ph.D. anthropologist that she’d been sharing something academic with him. “But you’re not Vulcan.”

“I’m a Belonite, and other than a few cosmetic differences, mostly the ears, I’m as close to Vulcan as you’re going to find without going to 40 Eridani to catch one.” She settled back and waited for Kirk’s follow-up.

 _Well then_ , he thought. _I think I’m just digging myself a hole_. “Belonite, that ticks a box from when I read your personnel jacket.”

“I wish that I could give a more festive answer, Sir, but—” Sha’leyen didn’t shrug or tip her head like a human might in this same situation.

“You know him, have known him for years. Could you maybe try to tell him that we’d really like to see him there?”

“I know him as my superior and as a member of a shared cultural group, Captain. Our standing is entirely professional, therefore I don’t think it’s within my capacity to goad him into attending your social gathering.”

Knowing when he’d been nicely told off, Jim Kirk rose to his feet, thanked his officer, and made for sick bay where he’d chew the fat with Dr. McCoy.

Sassy, Southern, and brimming with a good-natured charm seldom seen these days, Kirk looked on as the ship’s surgeon rolled his eyes. “I had to pick his name out of the hat, naturally.”

“Is it wrong of me to think that no one should be by themselves and deliberately isolated when the rest of us are having a good time?”

“Jim, I don’t think our fae-eared scrooge even knows how to have a good time. I swear he thinks one finger of whiskey is like choking down the devil.” The doctor drummed his fingers on the desk.

“Maybe if we—”

“If she said to let him sit in a dark room while we enjoy our evening, then that’s just what we should do.” Bones wasn’t helping. “It saves me having to figure out what in tarnation you get someone like that. I could have tried coal, but I doubt he’d get the reference and he sure as hell wouldn’t think it was funny.”

“Yeah, he doesn’t do funny.” He couldn’t let this rest. It bothered him. The holidays were supposed to be happy. “What if—”

“What if you actually followed some sound advice for once?”

Seeing he wasn’t going to win, Jim said, “I knew Sha’leyen wasn’t human, but I didn’t expect her to be. . . _so not human_.”

“She’s an odd duck, spent six years on Vulcan as a teen and university student. Don’t know if she learned her flat affect from them or if she’s an expert at subverting her emotional expression.” Bones rattled around in a desk drawer until he found a tube of lip salve and put some on. “So far, what little I’ve seen of her, she goes along to get along when it comes to all of our celebratory crap. I did try, when I was doing all the physicals right before we left spacedock, to see if she’d let me in on some of the mystic secrets of Vulcan-kind.”

Jim perked up. “Please say she gave us something useful.”

“She’s still sussing us out, Jim. Wouldn’t tell me a damned thing. I even framed it in a way that showed how much stronger we’ll be as a crew, command staff especially, if we knew more about one of our members. She put up a screen of privacy concerns and threw me off the scent. Might I suggest we tread lightly with that one? She could be a pretty good resource if we can build some trust.”

Kirk touched his forehead and closed his eyes. “Four years, thirty-six weeks, and three days.”

“What’s that, Jim?”

“The amount of time left to serve with a bridge officer who insists on remaining a stranger. Shit, I don’t even need to be friends with the guy, I’d just like to be able to ask him how his evening went and get more than, ‘My personal time was adequate, Captain.’ I’ll go crazy before too much longer.” Hand no longer obstructing his face, Jim continued. “He makes my brain cramp.”

“It’s not just yours. I will say this, you can get him transferred out of here and handpick a replacement, someone who can crack a smile. Too bad your ex, whatshername, isn’t available. She’s a science-type, experienced officer who can hold her own.”

“Billie would have been nice to have around, but she’s got her ship, I’ve got mine, and maybe we’ll meet again one of these days.” Thoughts on the breakdown of his last serious relationship put him in a melancholy sort of mood. “I don’t want to send Spock packing, but if I have to, I have to.”

“Which brings us right back to the beginning. What do you get for someone like him? A nice paperweight? I have no idea.” The conundrum remained.

  
  
  
Kirk tried again to rattle some useful information out of Enterprise’s library computer. Gift-giving practices of the Vulcans were not addressed. Party etiquette, nope. Formal gatherings was the usual look but don’t touch advice. Holiday rituals, names, and dates were given with simple single-sentence descriptions.

An enquiring eye fixed on Jim’s back. The man at the science station wasn’t as oblivious to human behavior as he claimed and he knew the captain was up to something. This wasn’t going to work with him on the upper level of the bridge. “Mr. Spock?”

“Yes, Sir?”

He has a nice voice, Kirk thought. I wish I could hear it do more than issue orders and relay information. “You have the bridge.”

They exchanged an eye-to-eye reading of one another, locking in for a millisecond too long. There was something behind the overtly Vulcan front. The two men passed as Jim went for the lift and Spock took over the center seat.

“I don’t know how long I’ll be gone, but I’ll try to make it fast.” He tried a grin to see if he could draw so much as a disgust response. Nope, didn’t get anything from his exec.

“As is the captain’s prerogative, Sir.”

Back down in bioarch, a couple of Sha’leyen’s enlisted visibly wondered if their boss was in some kind of trouble to have the captain visit twice in the same day. “Can one of you summon the Lt. Commander?”

“I’ll take you to her, Sir.” A young woman, different than the one who’d ferried him through the department this morning, took him back through the rat warren of interconnected office, lab, and storage space. They stepped off into a large repository containing what seemed like acres of empty cabinets and shelves. New archival storage supplies sat in crates waiting to be put to use. In the farthest reaches of the room, Sha’leyen spoke to one of her people about an updated version of the archaeological catalogue system the fine folks back in San Francisco had come up with.

“It’s not an improvement, Handler.” Sha’leyen said. “They’ve oversimplified it and it does not allow for proper categorization of biological specimens. What works for potsherds does not work for femurs and skullcaps.”

“We have a visitor.” The petty officer pointed out Jim and his escort.

“Use the old designations.” She turned to greet the captain.

“Another moment?” Kirk tried a little charm with her and couldn’t tell if she bought it or mentally rolled her eyes.

“The Christmas Party?” She asked as they made for her office.

Door closed, his ass in a chair, he said, “The Christmas Party.”

“And you’re not dropping the issue?”

“Only if I absolutely have to. Spock can’t be alone on Christmas. Besides, he’s half-human too, and that has to count toward participating.” He thought he’d come up with a brilliant deduction, the half-human thing.

“I warn you, leveraging his mixed parentage over something as inconsequential as an end-of-year excuse to tie one on, that will only offend him. I have seen it before. You all come through, see this mysterious man who seems like a puzzle waiting to be cracked, and no one is pleased in the end because you will not break him and he will regard you as a nuisance.” She wasn’t going to throw him a bone on this thing.

His train of thought sputtered for a moment. “I’m trying to be inclusive.”

“And he does not want to be included.”

“Obviously.” Kirk regarded the crescent-shaped bruise under his left thumbnail. “Just in case I do get him to show up, what do Bones and I need to know about getting and giving him the right present?”

“I cannot tell you.”

“Can’t or won’t, Lt. Commander?” He didn’t want to order her to turn over the information, but if it worked in his favor to build common ground with Spock, he’d do it.

“Can’t.” She said, tilting her head a couple of degrees to the right. “He and I come from different clans with different protocols for offerings. What I tell you for my family might be entirely different from Clan Surak’s traditions.”

 _Damnit_ , he thought.

“ _Bridge to Captain Kirk. Incoming message from Starfleet Operations_.” Lt. Uhura’s voice went out over the ship-wide PA. “ _Bridge to Captain Kirk_.”

Sha’leyen mashed the reply direct button on her desk console. “Bioarch here. I’ve got him and he’s heard your message.”

“I’m on my way.” On his feet, he said, “Saved by the bell.”

***

They only let up after he could no longer feel his fingers and another forced face-plant left green splotches in the snow. He rolled over and stared at the darkening grey sky, boys’ voices carrying insults and declarations of victory. They regaled in delight that Spock’s ass-kicking was a resounding success.

“ _Maybe the stupid weirdo will stay out here all night and freeze_.” That was the last sentence to make it to his ears before the laughing trio let themselves into the house.

Yes, perhaps he would keep supine on the blood-stained layer of white and simply fall asleep forever. That was what everybody wanted, was it not? Teachers, classmates, leering strangers, human supremacists, Vulcan purists, and probably even his own father thought the universe could only benefit from Spock’s removal.

A ground car turned from the main road onto the kilometer-long private drive that led up to Benjamin and Shelby Wright-Grayson’s luxurious Big Bear, California, vacation home. Situated on seventy-two acres of wild land, besides the house, toy garage, well pump-house, and a shed full of lawn maintenance machinery and summer sporting goods was a shed the same size and configuration as the other only Aunt Shelby described it as a tea house. He did not know what that was.

Parked, the driver’s door opened, and Shelby had no idea she was being listened to. “ _I’m just in time to get the boys their dinner. . . No, not so simple. Ben’s cousin’s kid refuses to eat chicken nuggets and fries. . . Pompous little shit_.”

He opened his eyes to the cold, let the surface moisture on the sclera begin to crystalize, and Shelby’s comments kept flowing.

“ _Of course I haven’t gotten him anything. . . Toys, what’s the point? Clothes, they’ll never get worn back on Devil Planet. At least a little girl would be okay with soaps and lotions. . . Deb, Deb, when I heard Ben said yes to hosting his aberration of a second cousin, I hit the damned roof. Then he talked me into it, saying it’ll be a good learning experience for our boys. . . What a pain in the ass and it’s not like he gets along with my kids. Oh, no. Can’t have that. . ._ ”

Shelby’s complaining faded when she let herself into the sound of her three sons exclaiming their love and how happy they were to have her home. Spock closed his eyes when Uncle Ben went to the porch and called for him to come in and eat.

 _Maybe if I go away_. . .

***

Decorations had gone up in the officer’s mess. Tabletop trees, garland, and shiny baubles brought a festive atmosphere to the utilitarian space. It was only a few days until he hosted his first big holiday gathering as Enterprise’s Grand Poobah. This was going to be good. It had to be.

“I think someone is suspicious.” McCoy pointed over Kirk’s shoulder, indicating a certain person.

“Yeah, well, he can suspect all he wants. I’m going to get his ass to this party, I swear.”

“I still don’t have a gift for the Green One.” Bones said. “How about this: novelty socks.”

“Is that a joke?”

“No, why? You don’t think he’d wear socks with tacos, moo-cows, or fly rods on them?”

Jim tried to keep an even expression. “Those are things in your drawer, aren’t they?”

Busted, the doctor lamented. “Joanna sent them as a Father’s Day thing a couple years ago. They’re still in the package, complete with tags.”

“Gift of last resort. Heck, I might even trade you for them for my person.” The captain had plucked Christine Chapel’s name and it was hard to know what would send her into hysterics. Socks might just be a safe bet.

“Sno-cone maker?”

“Wait, you have a sno-cone maker?”

Laughing, the doctor said, “The look on your face, Jim. . .”

  
  
  
Spock, as was normal for this time of year, opted for a hit and run of the food line in the officer’s mess. Where most of the crew saw bright colors and twinkling lights as a way to lift spirits and spread cheer, he viewed them in an altogether different manner. Decorated trees, real or fake, still had a mental effect on him years after his hellish childhood experience in Big Bear. They represented cold and rejecting people who were supposed to be his relatives. In his life, there was only one of these holiday trees that didn’t harbor this dark, secret meaning and many lightyears hung between him and the people who placed intricately wrapped gifts beneath it.

Tea, a dinner roll, an orange, that was all the more edible items on offer tonight. When the previous captain left, a competent kitchen staff went at the same time, opening slots for people who had no care for preparation, flavor, or dietary restrictions. The day before yesterday, one of his junior officers referred to the food as “stuff not even good enough to slop the hogs with.” Spock agreed.

“Hey there big guy.” Leonard McCoy caught Spock by his forearm, hindering his escape. “I’ve got the teeniest question for you.”

“Be expedient, Dr. McCoy. I am in the process of writing an article that I must get back to.” Should this devolve into another of the doctor’s pointless, meandering stories about a clearly embellished bucolic life back in Georgia, the Vulcan would never finish his task within his self-allotted time frame.

“Spending all your time playing with your computers isn’t good for you. Take a break, damnit.”

“I do not _play_ with any of the computers aboard this ship.”

“Sit down, why don’t you?” Captain Kirk tried to extend the invitation.

“No thank you, Captain.” Spock started toward the exit, not getting far enough away to miss out on McCoy saying, I sure wish he’d pull the stick out of his ass.

After that encounter, rather than returning to his laboratories and being subjected to other members of the crew, Spock retreated toward his quarters. That article didn’t require that he have constant hands-on access to any of those labs.

“ _Oh, Mr. Spock, it’s funny that I should see you here_.” That damned nurse! She took more pleasure in harassing him than her boss did, and McCoy’s days were incomplete without pestering Spock at least once.

 _Ignore her_ , he thought.

Hand tangled in her hair, she said, “I mean, what are the chances of the two of us meeting like this?”

“Considering the crew compliment of this vessel currently stands at four-hundred-and-nineteen and the number of enlisted who do not have clearance to enter into this—”

“Don’t give me numbers. Numbers are cold. Statistics don’t have any feelings.” Batting eyes, vapid smile, Christine Chapel was an arch provocateur. “ _And I know about feelings_.”

Her last line, breathy and impregnated with hidden meaning did not have the desired effect on him. Reset to ignore, he did his best to pretend she was not there dogging him like a spaniel. Arriving at his quarters, she sidled up beside him.

“So, are you going to invite me in?”

A couple of beats, silence immediately putting her into a state of concern, her mouth hung open and her eyes fluttered.

“You are to remain in the hall.” His door slid open and he crossed the threshold in a way that didn’t give her any chance of sneaking into his personal space, the last he saw of her before she was sealed away was her lower lip flapping in a childish pout. Chapel was one of those people where Spock wondered how she had survived into adulthood.

***

“You better get your ass inside, kid. My wife figures out where you’ve been, she’ll have both our hides.”

Ben, following the instruction of his middle son, found Spock. “Your food is getting cold.”

Confronted, Spock got to his feet, ready to follow back to the house.

“ _Oh, Christ. It really is green_.” Ben Grayson gave an involuntary gag. “I don’t know what the hell my cousin was thinking when she took up with your dad. She should have just stayed with Michael. Now he was a nice guy. . .”

Indoors, he faced down a giant plate of spaghetti and meatballs, the troop of juvenile baboons drifted in an out to heckle and jab about a vegetarian diet being for “green-blooded, pussy-ass weaklings.” He tried to think of somewhere he could stow away for a moment’s peace when it dawned on him the ground level of the house was too quiet. Aware that the front door had opened to admit someone, Spock hoped it was a package courier with three sets of matching muzzles and four-point restraints.

“ _Oooh, shit_!” A voice he did not recognize, another male child, mixed in with the brothers to confront Spock at the dinner table. “Shouldn’t he be at work back at Santa’s Grotto?”

The laughter again.

“That’s not a Vulcan. It’s an escaped elf!” New Boy wasted no time.

“I think it’s time you started packing for the North Pole.” The oldest Grayson boy said.

***

“Was it something I said?” The doctor shrugged and poured them both another round.

“Bones, it’s always something you said.” Kirk licked his lip in anticipation of the liquor his body was about to receive.

“I personally think he’s just a spoilsport. He’s not having fun so none of the rest of had better try any of that goofy shit.” A sloppy grin gave new life to previously tired blue eyes.

“You really don’t like him.”

“Now, when have I ever said that?”

Jim didn’t know how far he wanted to take this. “You kind of don’t have to.”

“There’s good-natured ribbing, that’s what I do. It’s a hell of a lot different than purposely being an asshole.” That knocked some of the happy off McCoy’s face. “And to prove it, I’m going to be the asshole that gives that Vulcan a bunch of dumb-as-fuck socks as a gag. I’ll find something else to be his real present.”

“Not a sno-cone machine?”

“Come on, Jim. He probably doesn’t even know what a sno-cone is.”

Chances were good the doctor was right.

  
  
  
Door buzzer sounding, Spock looked up from his work bracing to tell off Nurse Chapel when he found a Yeoman waiting for him, parcels in his arms. “We’re supposed to get another mail shuttle day after tomorrow, Sir, so don’t get too worried if not all of your family’s boxes and cards made it in today.”

“I do not worry, Yeoman.”

“At least someone’s not. Lt. Jefferson thinks the mailroom ate her mother’s gingerbread.” The young man handed off Spock’s delivery. “Watch, it’ll be on the next one.”

“Indeed.” Spock would file that baseless accusation away under more disappointing facts about Rashida Jefferson. The anthropologist had looked great on her CV. Out here, where it was time to prove her mettle, she barely trod water in her administration of sociocultural xenoanthropology.

“Merry Christmas, Sir.”

“Merry Christmas.” Spock set his shipment on his desk, briefly looking over his haul before he sat down.

The padded envelope, return address listed as Glen Onvar Studios on Sunset Boulevard in Los Angeles, had nothing to do with any holiday. Spock appreciated the play on words. The name, to those who didn’t know better, was just another in the billions of human monikers in current use. Glen-on Var, Golic Vulcan for Fantastic Tales, was a giveaway as to who the package was actually from. Envelope open, a hard copy of a book called _Shane_ came out, a folded note tucked in the front cover.

The header on the sheet, rather than a business name, said: _From the Desk of That Guy Who Stole All Your Pens (and Your Lunch)_. . .

 _Spock_ ,

_I’ve heard good things about this book for years and thought since it was my turn to pick a title that I’d go with this. It was turned into a fantastic film back in 1953, don’t remember all the details since I was a kid when I saw it._

_Greatly looking forward to your interpretation of the story. I think we’ll get some mileage out of this one. Hoping all is well in whatever end of the galaxy you’re in right now. I’d make this longer, but I’ve got to go play kiss-ass to some of my investors for my next project._

_Puktor Farok!_

_—Joe_

The note was very Joe Bergman. While Spock couldn’t always deal with the high-energy, frenetic, and loud manner the movie producer perpetually existed in, especially in face-to-face encounters, the man was a reliable letter writer and had nice taste in literature. One wouldn’t assume by looking at him that Joe had enough of a brain in his head to discuss a work in detail, sorting through objective and subjective interpretations and offering critiques and insight that few people were capable of. Those were excellent traits in someone who was for all intents a professional storyteller.

He flipped the book over and read the synopsis. There was promise within the pages. The sign-off, another set of words from Spock’s mother tongue, was a straight translation of Fight On! The saying derived from the university where he’d met Joe when the filmmaker was an undergraduate and he was a future Starfleet officer working on a master's in neuropsionics.

Next, a letter from Spock’s mother that he’d get to later, arrived with a box containing a batch of his personal favorite, scratch-baked pecan shortbread cookies. Neither the correspondence or the confection would have any hint of holiday saccharine. Amanda knew him too well. Another small box, removed from its protective mailing pouch, was wrapped in glittery blue and white paper, a curly-q ribbon erupting off the top. His oldest friend, Mollie MacCormack, always sent him something thoughtful and most years that gift was practical as well. A mental thanks sent out to his mother and his friend, he picked up the final item in the clutch.

Penknife on the ready to efficiently cut through twine and tape, the door sounded off again.

***

While his physical strength was greater than that of a human child of his same weight and build, being blindfolded, gagged, hogtied, and stuffed in the bottom of a toy chest while four boys barricaded the lid put Spock in a place where that superiority did not matter. They’d exploited a distracted moment, got a drapery cord wrapped twice around his neck, and left him no choice but to comply with their insidious plans.

Hands beat on the sides of the antique wooden containment. Yowls and caterwauls punctuated the impacts until he was trapped in a ball of head-splitting sound. One of them screamed at the others, convincing the rest of the rabble to push the chest off in some unknown direction. Even though he was Vulcan, Spock knew he was right to be scared.

***

“Captain, may I be of some assistance to you?” His new human boss seemed unsure if he’d been in the right disturbing Spock in his quarters.

“It’s kind of the other way around. I’m hoping I can lend a hand to you.” Kirk looked over Spock’s shoulder, expectations of an invitation.

“Come in, Sir.” He stepped back and allowed the younger man entry.

Agog, this was probably the captain’s first foray into a Vulcan space. He looked too long, too hard, trying to soak up as much visual information as he could trap in his brain. “ _Phew_. It’s a little warm in here.”

“My people evolved in a harsh, hot landscape. Everywhere on the Enterprise outside of my rooms is to me unseasonably cool.” Remaining on his feet, Spock had an even view of sweat beads forming on Kirk’s lip.

“I knew that, but—” The human tugged on his uniform collar. “I guess I didn’t _know_ it.”

Done with the mail until this unexpected guest left, Spock put down in his desk chair and folded his hands together. “How do you believe you are going to help me?”

***

Darkness, motion sickness from the lack of visual references and the jerking motion of the toy chest, Spock hit on what he thought was his first taste of panic. What were these boys committing? Was he the victim of an idiotic practical joke or swept up in the riptide of a truly malicious act? Any notion of silliness or gambol on behalf of these children went away when amongst the thuds, yelling, and footfalls, his ears met with the sound of compacting snow beneath the floor of the box.

Aged six-and-a-half years, Spock understood he was trapped in his own coffin.

***

A long-winded exhortation of the importance Kirk placed on these year-end festivities did not bring Spock any closer to attending the officers’ party. He’d be polite, hear the captain out, and reiterate that he would not be in attendance this year or any of the following four after that.

“And, well, it really would mean a lot to me if you’d come, Spock.” Kirk’s sincerity was not in doubt.

“Sir, I cannot.” It was like this everywhere he lived. Each new group of humans believed they had superior celebratory traditions and that their approach to the holidays was the one that would win Spock over to the cult of Santa Claus. Knowing the captain’s reputation for meeting challenges head-on, Spock had to hold his ground on the matter lest Kirk think he’d won a degree in a much larger argument.

“You’re not even giving me a chance.”

“That is by design, Sir.” Done with the subject, it was time to send James T. Kirk on his way. “Do have a good evening.”

Brow drawn, eyes bulged ever so slightly, Kirk said, “That’s it, you’re done with me?”

“I have some reading to do, Sir.” No mention that he’d be tackling a leisure book.

“What happened to you?” Gut instinct, human intuition, an uncanny guess, Kirk’s expression said, challenge accepted. “Someone went a long way to destroy Christmas for you, didn’t they?”

What would he throw in Spock’s path next? His human mother not forcing enough of her culture on him? His Vulcan father being too overbearing and canceling out his wife’s influence on their child? Academy classmates filling his bed with anthracite coal? He didn’t get to build a snowman as a toddler? Rampant speculation did not bide well in his mind.

***

Shoved, dragged, hauled over acres of snowy yard, Spock ending up dead would somehow be mitigated by the parents of these children, making the entire situation the victim’s fault. He thought he’d be left to expire in a bitter cold bout of hypothermia. That worry solidified when the sound of his box making way over the winterscape of the Wright-Grayson spread transitioned back into a wooden bottom scraping over a floor. Noise abruptly terminated, he understood he’d been abandoned in one of the property’s outbuildings.

Presented with two choices, freezing to death or making a play for his life, he decided this was not how he wanted to die. No sense in calling out because there weren’t any human ears close enough to both hear his pleas and act in his favor.

Grinding down on the dirty sock stuffed in his mouth, he tried to force his wrists apart. The cord dug into his skin sending sharp pains up his arms and causing his numbing fingers to tingle. Condensation from his nose crystalized in the air. He kicked and knocked his boots against the sides of the chest. There was no way for him to free his wrists with how they were tied behind his back and the composition of the strand used to bind him. Reducing the size of his feet so he could step backward through his arms was the only way to get his hands to a position where he might be able to use them.

Spock grunted and made his feet flop like a fish. Multiple minutes passed as he thrashed and struggled, finally shirking his boots. Knees drawn, arms pressed down to the point it felt like he’d dislocate both shoulders, he forced his lower limbs over the upper, resulting in more pain where he couldn’t adjust the position of his wrists to a more natural bearing. Neck straining, he barely hooked a finger into his mouth and dislodged the gag that threatened to smother him. Straight cold air sucked directly into his bronchial passages set off a violent coughing fit.

Lungs spasmed while he went another round with the wrist bindings. An attempt at chewing through the cord failed. That’s when he learned it was made of twisted strands of wire covered in woven cotton. If he could see it, it only would have looked like a standard drapery cord. No hands for now. If he didn’t get out of the chest soon, cutting the wire was trivial.

Knees drawn again, soles and quickly cooling toes pressed against the lid. He heard strain against the hinges. His left. The lid refused to comply with his desire to escape. His senses told him the toy chest lacked a lock or a catch. Freedom to his right. First, it made no sense that a latch didn’t have him trapped. Very aware of the tight space, his body flooded with the biochemical markers of fear. Losing all track of time, he had to take conscious, measured breaths to calm himself enough to realize the lid was weighted down, not locked.

Jumping jacks to make vibrations and directional force against the loaded surface, he’d jostle things loose a millimeter at a time if that was what it took. The underside of the lid collected his frosty breath. Poor air circulation threatened him almost as much as the cold. Toy chests of this vintage did not come with holes or slats for ventilation.

A juddering wave of dismay, sensible explanations for it offered from his higher brain, collided into innate, primordial survival instincts. Involuntary tears left trails of moisture to freeze lines on his face. _Fight harder_ , he thought. _Or you will die_.

***

Something in Spock’s demeanor told Jim that the science officer only had part of his mind in the present. That big, analytical brain gnawed on something not of this particular reality. “Maybe if you talk about it, it might start to let you go?”

He’d hit a nerve. Dark eyes flashed with a microcosm of emotion. “Unviable topics of discussion are simply that. I do not wish to engage in conversation on your party or any other holiday-related plot points no matter how tangential the connection.”

A scathing dressing down if Kirk had ever heard, he wanted to get one more comment in before this Vulcan bounced him from his quarters. “You know, I tried to do some research on you today.”

Not buoyed at such a remark, Spock’s expression remained neutral, something Jim almost interpreted as the issuance of a challenge.

“I went down to talk to your bioarchaeologist, twice, for some insight on how to make this a good time for you.”

“From the tone of your voice, captain, I surmise Sha’leyen’s assessment was not what you wanted to hear.”

“You’re right, it wasn’t.” Goddamnit, Jim was on the verge of overheating. “I’m just wondering, what if you gave us humans and this fete one more chance?”

***

Weakened from lack of food and the effort put into dislodging the lid, Spock sank against the floor of the chest, the sound of toppling ballast granting some short seconds of respite from this fight. Sitting up, the top rose and he pushed, flipping it open. Blindfold peeled off, he could see the steam rising off his body.

He hissed at the chill of the outbuilding’s concrete floor against his feet. No coat, only shirtsleeves, the need to free his hands was imperative. He needed his hands loose to get his boots back on and needed insulated feet to exit this building.

Terror somewhat subsided, the thick scents of chlorophyll and machinery his tell, the boys had locked him up in the gardening shed. The first impulse, to run for the door and flee, almost forced him into a worse situation. If he didn’t get those boots back on, he’d certainly lose one or more of his toes.

In his mind, a gardening shed meant tools, sharp pointy tools employed in turning soil and grooming plants. His mother’s outbuilding of this nature was full of pots, dirt, spades, and useful things like hedge clippers. Spock stumbled, an involuntary response to the ice-cold poured foundation beneath his feet. A potting bench offered nothing, just a drawer full of toy soldiers and an ancient, crumbling rubber ball. Beneath tarps, he found bicycles, an all-terrain vehicle, a snowmobile that hadn’t moved in decades, and an automated lawnmower that gave off a solitary blinking light to let people know it was in energy reserve mode. One corner granted a set of volleyball standards, a broken badminton racket, and a coiled garden hose. On the opposite side, deflated pool toys, three bags of mulch, and a child-sized nylon dome tent were all he found.

This wasn’t working. If there was a light switch, he could not find it, any useful implements were not kept in this place, and his exposed hands and feet started to feel like they were on fire. Search paused, he decided to try and get his boots back on. His hands, strapped together with the backs touching and no way of moving them to a useful configuration, it was impossible to stretch the top of the shaft to allow for entry of his foot since that was how the proprietary “self-lacing” technology the manufacturers touted was defeated just long enough to get the things on.

Something in the forsaken place had to help him out. Where he wanted a file, a saw blade, a heavy nail, he instead wrangled things so he could sort-of wrap up in the dome tent. He resigned himself to setting across the snow sans any protection.

Doorknob in his twisted palm, the mechanism refuse to move. A swift pull, awkward tug, pounding his shoulder against it, getting out of the toy chest was but an opening salvo in a larger war. Turning, back toward the unrelenting door, he knew his choices were few. Another sweep of the space yielded more nothing. He decided to sit on the storage shelf below the workbench, getting his abused feet off the floor.

Shivering, tent loosely hanging on his shoulders, his state of dismay ratcheted back up. What was he supposed to do if he lacked the implements and brute strength to bust out? It grew harder to keep a clear head.

Ideas, some fantastical, drifted through his mind. Nothing would grant him the traction he needed. Not giving up, but not generating any new plots, Spock stared out into the dark when the glow off the lawn cutting machine garnered his attention.

***

Jim’s follow-up disregarded whether Spock eventually decided to show his face at the party or not. “Trauma by association? There’s some kind of dissonance in your mind that puts our benign get-together into the same place as something totally shitty. I can’t eat cheese popcorn anymore because I got incredibly sick the last time I ate it as a kid. Even smelling it all I can see is a tidal wave of orange—”

“You have illustrated your point, Sir.” No talk about technicolor vomit geysers for this science officer.

Strapping on a smile that in his experience almost never failed to disarm, he said, “It’s okay for you to call me Jim. The rest of the command staff does.”

A slow blink and dark eyes wondered when Kirk was going to hit the skids. “So, what about Christmas memories? There’ve got to be a few good ones in between your ears. My probable favorite, if I had to pick just one, was when my older brother Sam decided he wanted to test out the chimney ahead of time so Santa could make it into the house. . . You are familiar with Santa Claus?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Well, Sam got a ladder, climbed up on the roof, pulled the ladder up with him and wedged it into the gutter. He said he didn’t want it falling over and him getting stranded. He goes over to the chimney and hollers down at me. To this day, I don’t know what he said. He claims he wanted me to keep an eye on him.” The silliness of this brother’s infamous Christmas impression brought a laugh to this day. “Then he jumped, feet first, into the flue.”

“Your brother could have been severely injured in this incident. How is there humor in the situation?”

“Right when it happened, it wasn’t all that funny. I walked off and left him there for about two hours. I was five and didn’t think much of it until Mom asked where Sam was at. Since he got the ladder up to where no one else could use it, we had to call the fire department. They almost had to take the chimney apart, one brick at a time, to get him out of there, but they managed with a rope and a mechanical hoist. We were both made honorary firefighters that day, which is a big deal when you’re a small boy.” This wasn’t working. “It’s funny now because we can all look back and appreciate how outrageous the whole thing was. Our older cousin, Dave, who was in high school, said so long as we still had both of our eyes a great time was had by all.”

One brow elevated a tick. “And if an enucleation had taken place, only then would your brother’s plight be taken as a serious matter?”

He thought for a second. What was enucleation? Not wanting to make a bigger fool of himself, Jim wagered that it meant losing an eye. _Funny story, my brother the Santa Clause test dummy isn’t so funny after all_. “Never mind.”

***

In memories granted to him years later, Spock knew some details of what else went on while he was expected to freeze to death in that shed. His own recollection of those hours started to trail off as the cold affected his physiology. He dipped out of his strictly personal record and into the mental impressions of another person.

His friend Mollie had an uncle called Justin, and without this man’s interference, Spock would not have made it through that night. Justin, helping his grandmother take care of a few more holiday tasks, all of the children in bed for the duration, tried to have a cup of coffee when the house phone rang.

Nora’s hands, sticky with glue and coated in a fine dust of glitter, meant Justin was tasked to answer. He expected an update from T’Lal, his Vulcan wife, on the number of hours before the merchant vessel she was crewing made it back to earth. The one person he never thought he’d see. . .

“Spock!”

“The mower has a constant uplink with a dedicated set of triangulation satellites and a terrestrial server. Fremantle Horticulture does not have a robust firewall and I made a connection.” Foggy plumes emanated from the child’s nose and mouth. He was caught in some frigid room unable to fend for himself.

“Where are you?” Justin pulled a collapsible keyboard from a nearby cupboard and plugged it into the comm.

“ _Help_.” The boy said, his not-blanket shifted, allowing Justin to see the condition of his bound hands. “ _This is not how I want to die_.”

“Stay on here with me, kiddo.” He shouted for his grandmother, his hands flying about the keys, prying loose what information he could. “Keep talking, okay? I’ll find you from my end, but that will only work if you stay connected.”

“Yes, Sir.” A glacial lungful of air launched a rib-popping cough. Something like a cold-induced asthma attack, the child doubled over, fighting to breathe in a climate his body was not designed for.

Nora stepped into the ground-floor office. “Justin, what is— _Oh my god_.”

“Come on, Fremantle. . .” He punched the keys, threading himself into the same system as Spock had. “Gimme.”

A long wheeze and the boy’s cough mostly subsided. “They trapped me in the toy chest.”

“Where did Amanda and Sarek say he was going?” Nora went for the spare coat closet and started pulling warm clothes.

“To stay with her cousins. Big Bear."

“Then I got out and I am locked in here.” A sniff followed by a hiccup disguised a quaking shiver.

“I’m going to grab blankets, a thermos, and water.” Nora took her armload of goods and went for the kitchen.

When a satellite location finally matched to the piece of machinery Spock was pleading from, a damnable reality hit. He could call EMS or the San Bernardino County Sheriff’s Substation, they’d get to this boy quicker than Justin possibly could, but would they know how to handle a medical emergency with a Vulcan child?

“Spock, can you still hear me?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“I’m coming down to get you. I promise to be there as fast as I can.” He decided to leave the call open. “You hold tight and Grandma Nora is going to come in and talk to you until I arrive.”

“Please, hurry.”

“I’m on my way.” Justin’s pulse picked up and he retrieved an aerial map of the area where he’d pull the boy back from certain mortality.

***

With the heat in the room enough to melt an aluminium ingot, the captain thought it odd that Spock had started to shiver. Expression distant, his mind engaged in something only he could see, the Vulcan appeared to withdraw into a place Jim was sure he didn’t want to go. “Is everything okay in there?”

Near-pupilless eyes, soot mixed in with molasses, closed, maybe five seconds later, they shot open, giving Kirk a jump scare. Awake for sure, he wanted the reassurance that his officer would be fine when he left.

***

Lumber clattered as the human hurled the blockage away from the door. Cinderblocks, wood, a sheet of 10mm thick metal as used for some obscure armoring in the historical reenactment industry was jammed up under the knob like a person might do with a chair. Once all was cleared away, Justin couldn’t get the doorknob moving.

“I’ve always wanted to try this.” He said. Like the fictional law-enforcement he saw in some of his favorite programs, Justin picked up his right foot and kicked like a mule. Three attempts and the door, the knob, they didn’t give. He chose to instead break the doorframe free from the wall, shoved the entire mess off to the side, and charged in to save Spock.


	2. Chapter 2

Author’s Note:

This notation is from when I first posted this chapter over at the K/S Archive, and I believe that it’s a fitting sentiment for this fic.

_Within seconds of getting ready to hit the 'Add Story' button, one of my news feeds refreshed. The person who genuinely gave us the Spock we know, who taught me as a writer the importance of crafting an elegant and intriguing backstory as part of character development, passed away just hours ago._

_Thank you, DC Fontana (1939-2019), for enriching the lives of so many by putting together an absolutely essential part of the Star Trek universe. You made me a better writer. Through your work, through Spock, you gave me the inspiration to believe that I had the strength to defy other people's dismissive expectations of me. You gave me an amazing individual to look up to and its because of him that I went into a career in science and became who and what I am today._

_Abi etek ragel-tor svi'thurai ha'kiv. (Until we meet in the next life.)_

  
  
  
Incongruous to his expected behavior, Spock began on a narrative that took Kirk a few hits to realize was about this mystery man’s childhood. Parents off on some fancy trip nowhere near planet earth, the kid left in the capable hands of his mother’s relatives, the set-up no cause for concern. Only when the details emerged did the captain begin to grasp what all of this disinclination to participate with colleagues was about.

Earlier, all thoughts about wanting to hear more of this man’s voice were on the dot. This science officer could spend the rest of his life performing the audio commentary on Kirk’s life. Even with the topic at hand, the pain he’d gone through, the entire experience of absorbing this tale captivated the human. When there was a conspicuous end to the words and he realized nothing else was forthcoming, Jim was quite frankly perplexed.

“That’s it?” Left dangling, Kirk was curious if this guy knew how swapping stories was supposed to work? The Vulcan blinked. Was this a fermata in the structure of the narrative?

“I have nothing else to say at the moment.” Fin.

“So I’m supposed to leave, not sit up all night thinking, and just accept that you’ve given me a form of autobiographical blue balls? _Mister, that’s not fair_.” Ooooh, that got Jim a head cock and a slanty-brow waggle.

“As of the last time I consulted the definition of the word fair, nowhere was I briefed of an application of the concept in regard to divulging personal information.”

“Little kid, freezing weather, shit-stain cousins, almost-homicide, last-minute save, doors getting kicked down, _and you have nothing else to say_!” Frustration didn’t begin to describe what the captain felt.

“Goodnight, Captain.”

Out in the hall, unceremoniously dismissed, and honestly confused about if he’d said or done something wrong, Kirk looked at the nameplate at the door and thought, _What the ever-loving fuck was that_?

***

Spock had started fading in and out of consciousness. Aware, but not completely aware, from the way his and Justin’s memories spliced together, he was too cold to be grateful at the sight of his rescuer. In the farthest reaches of his brain, the boy got feedback from an element of the subconscious, one that made him doubt this human was here to save him.

“I’m going to get off the phone now, sweetie.” Nora, the kind grandmother, said. “When we get you home, I’ll have a good dinner, one you can eat, ready for you.”

_I am very hungry_ , he thought.

On Justin’s side of the conversation, “. . .never seen anything like it. . . not rope at all.”

“Old fashioned clothesline was sometimes. . .” Nora’s words dissipated, fatigued remembrances of two people not retaining all the details.

Adult hands examined the drapery cord. Spock wanted for it to come off. He still needed to put on his boots. “Good thing I carry this with me everywhere. . . only deranged people do. . .”

Justin produced his pocket-knife everything tool, that after he got a warm coat draped over the boy, he set to the task of helping untie the numerous knots. The ones who did this, they knew precisely what they were doing and the damage they’d cause. Refusing to relent to building frustration, Justin worked faster. Thirteen separate knots, all designed to bind Spock’s hands so he’d never get them out, relented. “This is going to hurt.”

How could it hurt more than—

The embedded wire lifted from the skin on his wrists. A corresponding guttural noise rose from his throat.

“Spock.” Snapping fingers. “Eyes open.”

_I do not know if I should be scared of you_ , his thought connected with the man trying to rub circulation back into his fingers.

“Nothing to be scared of.”

“Yes, there is.”

A telepathic child, the boy was fully capable of bypassing vocal speech. And he showed Justin the cousins, their heinous friend, and Shelby, their mother. Mind to mind, because with this human there was no need to establish a formal meld, the man said, (I’ve got you now. If they think they can get at you, they’ll change their minds because they’ll have to come through me.)

Crouched down, Justin took hold of each of Spock’s feet, pulling on a pair of thin acrylic socks over which he put a second pair of heavy wool. He tugged at a strap on his shoulder, revealing a thermos. A hot beverage went into the lid that served as a cup.

(This is probably going to taste like ass to you. We need you to drink it.)

The boy might have nodded. (Yes, Sir.)

Brim held to his lips because Spock’s hands didn’t allow for such a simple task, he immediately didn’t like the overly sugary smell. Partial sip—

( _What is that?_ ) Sputtering on a flavor that burned, overwhelmed, and made his taste buds revolt, he didn’t know that he could choke it down.

(Coffee, rum, and a bit of hot chocolate.) Another mouthful and he was shaking his head.

(If they haven’t, your capillaries are going to start collapsing from the cold and that can continue up the chain to larger vessels and veins. We get you all warmed up, you’re going to start throwing clots.) Cup of vile liquid against his lips again. (We didn’t have time for Grandma Nora to compound an anticoagulant for you. The booze is a blood thinner and the caffeine and other chemicals in the coffee and chocolate are going to dilate these lagging parts of your circulatory system.)

( _How much_?)

(I need you to drink as much as you can. Big glug for me.)

Spock forced down a couple more mouthfuls, the combination of warmth and alcohol thawed out the inside of his nose.

(Almost there. We’ll get this one in you then we’re getting in the car and getting you out of here.)

Justin carried the boy out of the garden shed, not unlike how he’d carted his own son around when he was much younger. (It’s going well. We’re almost there.)

Gingerly avoiding tripping hazards that could land them both in the snow, the car was within sight. That’s when a floodlight dazed he and Spock both and they were treated to the screeing of a woman shouting, “Ben! Right there! _Bennnnnnn_!”

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Amanda’s cousin pretended like he was a tough guy.

Coming through the temporary blindness, Justin turned toward the shouting and faced the house. The mom pointed accusingly at her sons and their friend. “You told me he was hiding in the toy box!”

Young boys, all part of the ten and under crowd, poured out onto the back porch. “That’s where he was, Mom. We swear.”

“ _Oh no, you’re not taking that kid anywhere_.” This Ben puffed up like a grouse. “Take another step and I’ll clean your clock, Mister.”

Aggressive gesticulating and booming voice aside, Justin had little to worry about in terms of the guy. His wife, however. . .

“ _My husband will fucking kick your ass_!”

“Spock is coming home with me.” Calm, voice level, he wasn’t going to mimic their hysterics.

“Call the cops, Shelby.” Ben cleared the first two steps down from the porch when a popping noise came from deep within the house. One by one, every light in the structure came on.

“Ben?” Shelby barked.

“What gives you the right to come onto my property and kidnap—”

“I am good friends with this young man’s father.” Justin hiked the boy in closer against his body. “If you want, you can make this into an interstellar diplomatic nightmare. I’ll let you choose.”

“ _The cops, Shelby_!” The homeowner yipped.

(You doing okay?) An unfeigned element of caring crossed over with Justin’s words (As soon as I get these yahoos off our trail, we’re gone.)Spock nodded, his cold cheek rubbed against Justin’s warm neck.

When she started slapping at her handheld device and shrieking about no outgoing calls on the home comm according to their system, Ben had to snipe at her about how only an idiot couldn’t place a call to the sheriff’s substation.

“Dad, what’s wrong with the lights?” One of the baboons who’d tried to kill Spock tugged at his father’s shirt.

“You’re going to regret the day you thought you could pull one over on me.” Last steps descended, Ben made a fist.

“Attempted murder charges, that’s what you’ll be brought up on.” Justin snuffed the flame driving Ben. “While you and your lovely wife spend several years at the California Department of Corrections’ leisure, the three little psychopaths you spawned can learn all about being on the receiving end of their peers’ torture and harassment.”

“Ben, Ben, it won’t let me call.” Shelby continued.

That’s when the husband noticed what one of the kids wanted him to explain. All those lights that had gone on continued to brighten in intensity until a high-pitched whining started to grate on human ears.

Justin, thinking the Wright-Graysons were distracted enough tried again to make for the car. At the prodding of his wife, Ben followed after. “I said you’re not taking that kid, _asshole_.”

Turning on his heel, Justin knew he was going to have to rumble this pathetic excuse of a husband and father. “Watch me.”

Another two steps closer to the man and child, Ben’s head whipped about wildly. All the lights had gone out, absolute pitch black in the middle of the mountains, only to start popping on again, one at a time until the night was mottled with a weakened yellow haze.

“ _Ben, do something_!” The wife yelled. Lights low, phones malfunctioning, the home security system started on its ugly song but the only intruder was out on the lawn. One door, then another, and more, randomly slamming, opening, and pounding shut. Parked cars, beeping, flashing, media systems running at full volume, vid screens coming to life in varied locations throughout the house. “ _Beeeeeeeeeeennnnnnnnnnn_!”

“It’s you! You’re doing this.” A twinge of recognition slapped Ben right in his fat head. He thought he was in real danger. “ _You’re a fucking mindfreak_!”

“I will inform Spock’s parents of where he’s at when I get him home and put to bed.” Justin liked that Ben refused to meet his gaze.

“You’re worse than the alien creep my cousin married.”

Justin, the veteran of decades of name-calling and suspicion, pushed the encounter, drawing down the end. “Is that the best you’ve got?”

“You’re not even human.” Ben snarled. “You can only pretend.”

  
  
  
Now that the violent shivering had passed, Spock’s cheeks felt hot from the alcohol in his system. Hands practically shoved through the grates on the car’s forced-air heating system, he’d regrouped somewhat and was nearly overwrought with the relief that he never had to return to that house.

“Were you going to hurt them?” What drove him to ask such a question of an adult rather than keep it to himself, the child was unsure.

In profile, Justin’s expression softened. “All I wanted was to scare them a little. That way they’d want to let you leave with me. In tense situations like that, the trick is getting people to believe that something is their idea.”

The human looked briefly at his passenger.

“I thought Uncle Ben was going to hit you.”

“He might have tried. His wife wanted him to. Nothing and no one was stopping me from taking you home. They expounded about getting the police involved, but even with working phones, they’d never have gotten law enforcement out there.” Justin put out a confident calm that allowed Spock to put some mental distance to the night’s sinister campaign. “The Sheriff would have arrested them for child neglect at the very least, but they knew they’d go down on the attempted murder. As for any charges, right now, I’m going to leave that decision to your parents.”

A look out the window to the landscape below, they were above the ground traffic and slick roads. This vehicle was one of T’Lal’s so-called “go faster” toys. The Grapevine snarled below in a twinkling bottleneck of head and tail lights.

“This will greatly upset my mother. She reacts. . . _poorly_ when incidents less severe in scope befall me.” Spock could see Amanda sent to tears at the hardships inflicted on her only child. “My father, I do not believe he will appreciate—”

“Proxima Rusalka is a good place for Sarek to be right now.” Justin interrupted. “He’s going to be expeditiously apoplectic. That interstellar diplomatic nightmare I mentioned, that’s your dad, and the only thing in his favor regarding this is distance. If he was currently in San Francisco or Los Angeles, Ben and Shelby wouldn’t stand a chance.”

“Vulcans are not conditioned to behave in such an impulsive manner.” Spock was certain that Justin was saying this to make him feel better about a parent who saw only disappointment instead of his child.

“I’ve known your dad for a lot of years now. He’d cut down a thousand men to save you.” An adjustment to their heading so they might arrive in the proper part of central California, Justin paused his comment for several seconds. “I’d do the same for my son.”

_But Sarek is not like you, Justin_ , Spock thought and returned his attention to the latticework of towns and roads breaking up the otherwise dark ground.

  
  
  
Not very far outside of Turlock, California, tucked away on an expansive peach farm, was the epicenter of the MacCormack family. Called the Big House, the rambling three-story home played host to all manner of functions and social gatherings. The only person to call it a permanent address was the High Matriarch, Dr. Nora MacCormack, and she was swift to get the door open and Spock inside.

“Off to the kitchen with you my dear. I’ll be in to check you over in a moment.”

Justin carried the boy to the breakfast table and got him situated with a bowl of lentil stew, homemade buttered bread and peach preserves, and a mug of steaming apple cider. “Start slow so you don’t make yourself sick.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Justin returned to the front parlor where Grandma Nora waited, arms folded across her chest. “It’s a miracle he’s not dead.”

“Grandmother, it was awful. That family, they enjoyed making that boy suffer. And somehow people like us are the ones that are thought of as subhuman.”

“His state of mind?” She had a traditional black bag open on the sofa and started reaching in for certain implements and medications.

“He’s pretty shaken up. Let’s give him a day or so to start sorting it out on his own, then T’Lal or Livia can get in there and help him with the heavy lifting.” Shoulder loping, a head shake, Justin let the disgust he had for the entire situation register on his body. “Oxygen wasters.”

“And these are Amanda’s relatives?” Nora sneered. “They seem to have come from a branch of the family tree that experienced retrograde evolution.”

“Well put. I’m not in a place where I’m capable of eloquence. If I think about it too long, it makes me want to charge right back down there and drop-kick their spoiled, bigoted asses to the fucking moon.”

  
  
  
“Contusions, cuts, lacerations, embedded strictures, dehydration, malnutrition, exposure, and just an all-round bad time, you’ve had a heck of a week, young man.” Medical tricorder set to the side, Nora brought her hand in close to Spock’s face and got a start from him. “They’re never going to touch you again.”

A slight nod and a gaze into the grandmother’s understanding eyes and Spock tried to get his mind to settle into a state of reason. Palm within millimeters of his skin she began on a psionic reading of his mental and physical state. The energy breaching the negligible gulf between their bodies, he found he welcomed the palliative quality and processes of her psyche lifting great blocks of discomfort.

“Hyoid is intact.” She said to her grandson. “Slight soft-tissue damage, not too much inflammation to the trachea or surrounding structures. . .”

Human hands out of close proximity, caloric intake issuing a minute energy reprieve, Spock took a look behind him where he knew the living room lay. Two-and-a-half meters tall, an artificial evergreen showcased generations worth of heirloom decorations. Rainbow colored string lights, metallic garlands, carnival glass icicles, were the base for all manner of ornaments. They weren’t uniform in size, color, or theme, yet the distribution was even and pleasing to the eye, not allowing for the mind to think it was subjected to chaos.

Most of the hollow round ornaments had hand-painted names and designs on them. He found the one belonging to Justin’s son, Tralnor. Confronted with a reminder that Tralnor, also a child of two worlds, was accepted by his earth relations left Spock puzzling over his own blatant rejection. Another related question came to mind. “Justin, why did Uncle Ben say you are not human?”

“A lot of people, not all, of course, harbor distrust for those who diverge from what the majority considers normal. Psions are especially frowned upon because we have the capability to see hidden details and discover secrets we’re not entitled to. No amount of our adherence to ethical behavior can override the suspicions of those who choose to see us as a threat.”

Before Nora stepped away to return her medical kit, she made the boy up another thick slice of buttered bread with jam.

“This particular branch of the MacCormack family arrived in California in 1851, fleeing persecution by the English. It was the only way they could escape the gallows on charges of what amounted to witchcraft. In San Francisco, they worked hard, first selling goods to the placer miners who’d come to find their fortunes, and then they began arranging passage for other psions running away from people and governmental entities who wanted them imprisoned or dead for nothing other than the way they were born.” Justin got up from his seat and indulged in some bread and jam.

Spock understood what Justin’s ancestors experienced. “I am not responsible for the circumstances of my birth. However, people constantly imply that I am at fault for my own existence.”

“It’s an ugly place to find yourself caught up in. The fact is that you and I, and others like us, can’t convert into what the rest of the world wants us to be. Uneasy truces and mutual avoidance aren’t always possible. We have to interact with those who refuse to trust us as a matter of our own survival, the recourse being to live the best life possible and put them in a place where they are given no choice but to see how successful we are.”

“What happened to your family for bringing others like them to California?” The boy understood this mentality far too well.

Justin wiped a streak of sticky off the side of his hand. “They were run out of the city in the middle of the night. They took what they could carry and came down to the Central Valley. We’ve been here four centuries, close to starting on number five. In that time, we’ve not always been liked by our neighbors or the townsfolk, but we’ve made the best of what we had.”

“Sorry to interrupt, but I need to borrow your friend for a moment.” Nora took Justin somewhere nearby to talk with him about something. Spock didn’t hear much, but Justin’s memory was intact.

Adjacent to the living room was the small space the decor was staged from. Many years removed from the screened-in porch it was constructed as, walled off from the outside in a renovation back in 1902, it was a convenient place for storing the tree and all its baubles.

“What sizes do you think he wears, Justin? We’ll get him into some of Martin’s clothes tonight and I will do some shopping for him tomorrow.” She lifted the lid on a green and red storage container. Out came an eggplant purple mercury glass ball and a pen that dispensed silver paint. With her steady neurosurgeon’s hands, she began embellishing the ornament, starting with Spock’s name.

“Martin’s will work fine. I’d say Spock’s probably got the same shoe size as Mollie right now.” He started on a search for a specific old wooden peach crate.

“Figuring out clothes for him, that’s the hard part out of the way. Livia’s said he enjoys Great Grandfather Eldon’s telescope. Should I stay in that vein for other gifts?” Name delicately inscribed, she started on a swirling pattern of lines to break up the rest of the ornament’s blank space.

“The telescope was a big hit. Looking at the stars is one of the few things he and his dad do together.” Justin made a sound of satisfaction. He’d found what he was looking for and pulled out a teal satin stocking. “Thanks for letting us give that to him.”

“Of course. Dried fruit like we do for Tralnor and Mollie instead of candy?”

“Yeah. If that kid ever touches chocolate again, it’ll be too soon for his liking, even if it isn’t laced with copious amounts of rum.” In the peach crate with the stocking was an assortment of sequined letters. Some fabric glue and Justin got the boy’s name on the decorative sock.

“Do you think he’d be allowed to travel with a copy of the _OED_?” Another paint pen out, she added teal dots to her design.

“As the ambassador’s kid, yeah. Customs knows not to fuck with Sarek and that includes not dinging him for his boy’s big, heavy books.”

“Excellent. I found a set when I was at The Bibliophile on Tuesday finding presents for the rest of the kids.” Nora was visibly pleased.

“Only in this family are antique books considered lavish yet appropriate gifts for children.”

“We wouldn’t give them if they were unpopular. At his age, I would have adored my own _Oxford English Dictionary_. I didn’t get mine until I was nine.”

“Where can I find a set of Marty’s jammies? It’s probably time to get Spock to bed, then I can call his parents.” He left the stocking to dry.

“Clean loads of wash from this afternoon are all folded and in the basket rack.”

A trip through the laundry room to collect flannel pajamas, Justin returned to the kitchen only to find Spock fast asleep, head down on the table. He hefted the kid like he had earlier, and made for upstairs.

The well-insulated sleeping porch where all the younger kids crashed out on visits like this was at capacity. Nine beds, all full, Justin approached the one containing his niece, Mollie. A gentle shake and she was batting her eyes and searching for an explanation.

“Someone’s here.” Justin said once he’d gotten her to scoot over.

“ _Spock_?” She yawned and blinked heavily. “What happened to him?”

“He was badly mistreated by his cousins.” He lay the exhausted child in the bed. “He’s spending Christmas with us.”

Sensing warmth and a kind, familiar mind, the boy burrowed up against Mollie and she draped an arm over him while Justin pulled the blankets back up. She was asleep before Justin let himself out of the room.

***

Leonard McCoy shook his head at the story Jim relayed. “I’d hate Christmas too if that was my introduction to it. Though I don’t agree with him about your story. Sam jumping down that chimney is funny as hell.”

“Who does that to a kid, Bones?”

“Assholes.” The doctor didn’t hesitate with that answer. “Who was this person who came and kicked the door down?”

“Um, he described this Justin as his cousin’s dad.” Jim hadn’t been completely clear on that and Spock was more than deliberately vague in his explanation.

“Obviously not the same cousins as the evil shits who put him in that shed. I’ve wondered about the human side of his family, seeing it’s especially hard to tell that we’re a part of his heritage.”

“Well, it’s his father’s cousin’s husband, but there was some remark in there about his father and this cousin not being legal relations anymore. What does that mean? Don’t know, he wouldn’t tell me.” He’d gotten a borderline scowl from the science officer when he’d searched for edification. “I think I’m just supposed to accept that those details aren’t important.”

“Makes you wonder about his folks? If Spock and Sha’leyen are any indication of what Vulcan families create, then I’ve got to say I feel pretty damned sorry for them as kids. Imagine how cold the adults in their lives must have been to make these crewmates we’ve only met as final results?”

“Well, if we ever meet them, you might have to ask.”

“Yeah, that’ll be a pleasant conversation, I’m sure.”

“I just can’t get over that he’d tell me all this and shut down the moment his rescuer gets into that shed. He had me and now I’m waiting for an episode two that’s probably not going to happen.” _This guy knows how to chap my ass_ , Kirk thought.

“Autobiographical blue balls, you actually said that to him?” The doctor had to chuckle some more at the description.

“Yeah, I said it.”

“Doesn’t sound like he’s warmed up any, pardon the pun, about your party. I think I’ll give him those socks anyway.”

  
  
  
Spock, relieved to have the captain out of his quarters, returned to what he’d been doing at the time of the interruption. However, the final box remained wrapped tight while he thought some more about this forsaken holiday. The more people crowed about its virtues the more he wanted to hide from those same people.

Why had the captain been so upset at the conclusion of the story? By virtue of sitting in the same room as Spock, Kirk knew how the tale ended before it began. What did the human think he was missing out on by not knowing every trace of minutiae regarding that failed trip to Big Bear?

***

Jostled awake, Spock’s first reaction to the interruption was to hold perfectly still, pretend he still slept, and hope the Grayson boys were quickly overtaken by boredom, leaving him alone.

“We know you can hear us.” A young, male voice said.

No laughter, no indication of a fist coming to impact his belly, Spock wanted nothing more than to be left alone.

“If you want breakfast that’s not cold cereal, you better come downstairs.” Another boy, his tone lacking the mean edge Spock had grown used to as of late, said.

A third said, “ _I’m gonna eat so many pancakes_!”

“Hey, all of you, scoot.” Justin’s voice took Spock out of the bubbled he’d put up around himself.

A chorus of _Yes, Sirs_ was followed by the sound of feet moving down the hall and descending the stairs.

“That means you too, Tralnor.” Justin’s son, not quite four-and-a-half years old went around to the other side of the bed.

“Sa-mekh, teker-kanlar tan-tor lo-uk kusut.” _Father, deviant children give him great pain._

At that description, Spock finally opened his eyes, accepting that last night’s heroism wasn’t just some fever dream of his dying brain. His next reaction was to want to insist that he had no feelings regarding his mother’s cousins. The young hyper-empath at his bedside was not a person from whom one hid their true emotion or any emotion at all for that matter.

“When breakfast is done, and lessons for the other kids start, it’s okay if you come back up here and go back to sleep. We don’t expect you to do much more than rest today.” Justin motioned for Tralnor to join him. “There is a set of clean pajamas draped over the middle rung of the towel rack in the bathroom next door.”

Tralnor’s gaze, from his dark, nearly blood-green eyes, communicated concern, and understanding. “We are all glad you’re here.”  
  
  
  
Wearing Martin’s pajamas, scabby wrists dressed in antibiotic ointment and re-bandaged, Spock sat down to his second meal in a row that he could actually eat. Mollie, often referred to as his partner in crime, took hold of the hand he wasn’t using to consume his breakfast. She was one of the rare pieces of proof that he wasn’t just a monster invented at a lab bench for the entertainment of bored geneticists.

(Spock, don’t forget.) Mollie, like every other person in the grand dining room, was a psion.

(Forget what?) He did have a sense of the MacCormack’s welcome.

(I will always want you for a friend, just like right now.)

(Mollie, you do not need to say that.) He didn’t finish the rest of his thought that would have let her hear his doubt. Part of him was completely positive that no one would choose to keep him in their life.

She squeezed his fingers. ( _Oh, yes I do_.)

***

How soon was too soon to develop regret over sharing a sliver of his life’s story? Spock spent the morning staff briefing, James Kirk staring him down with Leonard McCoy joining in on the activity. Mild irritation seized the science officer. All he had said was obviously related to the doctor. While he’d not perceived the captain a gossip, Spock stood corrected on the notion that the highest serving officer aboard a Starfleet ship would comprehend the niceties of not haphazardly spreading information about one person to another.

When the meeting broke, he did not linger, lest public confrontation put him into a scenario where the only way to retain his dignity was, in the perception of humans and their easily hurt feelings, to counter the questions in such a manner that a more than polite refusal came off as a hostile retort.

He arranged for a junior officer to fill in for him on the bridge, thus avoiding the captain, and decided to undertake a tour of his division’s departments. Unannounced check-ins were a trait he’d adopted from his predecessor when Commander Blakely had rightfully pointed out that pop-inspections kept the crew on their best behavior. Slacking off had the frightening potential of developing into fatal situations best avoided and toxic work environments everyone dreaded. Halfway through his rounds, the only person who was unhappy to see him was Lt. Jefferson, and it wasn’t Spock she was angry at. Her mother’s “most delicious you’ve tasted anywhere in the universe” gingerbread had not turned up. His advice was to forget about confections and turn in her initial reports on the colony at Verity B.

His final stop, the one he’d purposely pushed off until last even though it meant retracing three-quarters of the physical distance he’d covered, was bioarchaeology. Lt. Commander Sha’leyen shucked her gloves, mask, and lab coat as she saw him enter her turf. Silently, they retreated to her office where she shut the door, granting them privacy only to be interrupted if an emergency broke out and they were needed elsewhere on the ship.

“Before we settle in, may I offer you some tea?” A drawer on one of her file cabinets pulled open to reveal a kettle, a tin of loose leaf tea, a pot to steep the beverage in, and three chipped mugs.

“That would be most pleasing.” He took a chair and she handed him a cup bearing the stylized logo: New Scotland Yard. She selected USS Yuri Gagarin, the ship she’d served on prior to her arrival on the Enterprise.

“Is it within the realm of possibility that you are here not to discuss the issue of your attendance at the Christmas party, but rather the person spearheading the effort to get you to go?” Tin opened, an aromatic blend of dried fruits and spices from Vulcan blossomed out into the air.

It was within rare moments like this that Spock was reminded of how he’d not been back to the planet of his birth since the day he left home at age seventeen. Unsure if he truly missed it as a place rather than a concept, he decided to focus on the true topic at hand, James Kirk. “You are not wrong.”

Hot water met organic matter allowing for the steep to begin. She would remain on her feet until the tea was fully brewed and served. “Then you must know he talked to me yesterday.”

“He emphasized that he enquired with you, twice.”

A terse nod, she said, “In his mind, you are deliberately noisome over something he sees as a purposely inclusive opportunity to make you feel a part of the crew.”

“There is nothing in any Starfleet regulation pertaining to the use of one’s personal time. Specifically, no mention exists marking earth holidays and their celebration as mandatory. Such a policy would be markedly prejudicial and thus highly unlikely to have been codified.”

“He does not view himself as exhibiting deep-seated ethnocentrism. That is his youth and inexperience showing. He’s spent his career rocketing up the ranks as a line officer. I’m certain it would be different if he’d spent some of those years humping it with staff officers like you and me.” She moved the pot from the drawer, held the whole thing over a wastebasket, removed the infuser, and set it in the trash for later cleaning. “The promising detail about this man: unlike some individuals from the previous regime, Captain Kirk is not coming from a place of hubris or racism. His is, I think the say goes, light and squirrel-tailed?”

“Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.” Spock corrected.

Tea poured, mugs steaming, Sha’leyen took in the correct version of the human saying. “I did not encounter squirrels until I went to earth for graduate school. They remind me of valitlar and not in a flattering way. The only advantage squirrels have compared to the three major Belonite valitlar sub-varieties is that squirrels have hair.”

Never having been to Belon, and hoping to keep it that way, Spock took her word about the burrowing rodents that originated on Vulcan. “I appreciate that you do not encourage his drive to have me appear at that gathering.”

“If I had worded my suggestions to him in a much stronger manner, I might be looking at a reprimand in my file for telling the captain he is being deliberately headstrong and divisive over a non-essential recreational appointment.” She sipped her tea and set the mug down. “Should he come to seek my advice again, I will reiterate what I have already told him.”

“That will have to suffice.”

***

The ten kids under the age of twelve had to bus the table, wipe it down, sweep and mop, then get it set for the next meal. Four teens, older MacCormack cousins whom Spock had never met prior to that morning, washed, dried, and placed all the service items in their respective cupboards and drawers. He joined in as Justin herded the whole lot of them upstairs.

Spock had a choice of going back to bed or participating in the day’s activities. Lack of any quality contact with people of any kind, though he was physically and mentally fatigued, had him leaning toward following everyone into the music room.

Tralnor, the youngest in the group, was another dark head in the gaggle until he stood in front of Spock, effectively barricading the way. “We have to stand for voice and breathing. Your feet hurt.”

Still returning to full-function from all that time spent in the cold, his toes and feet would be at least another day before the discomfort passed. Now that the younger boy had made his statement, Spock started to suspect that perhaps this cohort of children had no use for a diplomat’s son either.

“May I see your hand?”

Eyes closed, Spock asked himself, _Why, so you can insert derision straight into my head_?

When Tralnor got both of his hands around Spock’s left wrist, the surprise was two-fold. This kid violated the understood rules of personal space and the pain from the embedded wire tract, while under pressure from an outside source, never came. A syrupy warmth began in Spock’s arm and spread before his ability to stop it.

Tralnor closed his eyes, drew a deep breath of concentration, and kept hold of Spock for another full fifteen seconds. Eyes back open, a glaze of tiredness set upon him, and he said, “That will help.”

Limb returned to his full control, Spock took an inventory and realized what Tralnor had done. “You know that you are not supposed—”

Spock tugged back the cuffs on Tralnor’s sleeves. Greenish-black bruises formed on the younger boy’s wrists in an accurate recreation of Spock’s wounds. A waggle of his toes within the cocoon of Martin’s socks and slippers showed the burning/tingling sensation in his feet had all but gone away.

“Why did you do that?”

“Not everything that hurts us is something fixed by a Mair-rigolauya’s touch, but some is.” Tralnor used the Vulcan word for hyper-empath, triggering a reminder that while he and Spock were blood relations, not all of their Vulcan lineage was attributable to the same ancestral groups. Tralnor’s mother, Sarek’s cousin was the product of a Clan Surak/Clan Lyr Saan marriage that ended in near-deadly disaster and a family feud.

“Nemaiyo, sa-rei.” _Thank you, cousin_. Spock’s use of the word cousin, in this intimate exchange between the two of them, no adults around to hear and interject their politics and ill-regard between families, seemed appropriate.

“Dor-shei t’nash’vey.” _It is my honor_ , Tralnor replied. “Hi T’Pau ri-fudau etek u’skann.”

_However, T’Pau does not regard us as family_. Yet another reminder that adults were not always consistently logical beings. Spock would that this person standing with him be his relative than his acknowledged Vulcan cousins.

“Bes’tek mahs-yuu, Spock.”

Not knowing what was said, Spock wanted clarification. “Starpa’shau?”

“It is Old Lyr Saan, from the Nuhs Fe-puktor-stron.” _The Era Before the Uprising_. “Slaves were things so no one was allowed to be related. Rather, we are companions, that is how the Lyr Saan said they were family.”

“Bes’tek mahs-yuu.” Spock replied. “ _Rather, we are companions_.”

Tralnor nodded and they both looked into the music room as the piano and thirteen voices started on warmups. The boys entered and assumed places. Mollie leaned between them and whispered, “You’re late, Fungus.”

The tease, meant for Tralnor, got a smile from a couple other kids. Justin’s hands paused above the keyboard. All expressions neutralized at this break where they could regroup. He said, “C Major, from the top.”

Short counts later, the whole room, in unison, created a chorus of wordless harmony.

  
  
  
It was not lost on Spock that Justin and his son shared the same compassionate forbearance, meaning the selfless act Tralnor performed that morning was more than the result of ancient geneticists programming some of their slaves to psionically catheterize the corporeal misery of others.

To listen to the Golic majority, his own relations within Clan Surak, Spock was supposed to know that the Lyr Saan were a vestigial reminder of what life was like before emotional control and logic became the way of Vulcan. Where he’d never witnessed the manifest inborn violence and lunacy ascribed to these descendants of former slaves, Spock did know that it was not Tralnor’s Lyr Saan mother and grandmother who created the rift between lineages.

So why was it that these people were branded no good when it was the child of T’Pau’s brother, a now banished man, that set off this bitter social dynamic? As Spock rarely viewed anything in the same light as his father, it seemed out of sorts that he agreed with Sarek’s insistence on keeping a good relationship with Tralnor’s mother, T’Lal, and vicariously the rest of the Lyr Saan. This connection allowed the ambassador’s weird little halfbreed a handful of friendships with and exposure to those considered equally odd.

Caught between Sarek’s normal family and Lady Amanda’s normal family, it was in amongst this collection of Vulcan chattel and human monstrosities that Spock discovered some sense of belonging.

***

His day of reviewing the Science Division’s fiefdoms done, Spock considered what to do about his dinner. If it meant avoiding the captain’s pleading, the doctor’s mind-numbing anecdotes, and his least favorite charge nurse, he’d make a meal of pecan shortbread. While giving the notion serious consideration, he got shanghaied. Kirk and McCoy seemed to materialize out of nothing and cornered Spock in the lift.

“Give us a hint, man.” The physician began. “Otherwise I might be forced to give you a thirty-year-old fruitcake and a quart of rum to soak it in.”

_Rum. . . Did it have to be rum_?

Fingers snapped and waved in front of the Vulcan’s face, McCoy said, “Spock? It was just a joke. I’m not getting you a fruitcake.”

If nightmares were described as consumable goods, Spock’s terrors were rum and chocolate. “That is because you are not getting me anything.”

Before McCoy and Kirk curdled the entire evening, Spock fled the lift the instant it opened to admit another passenger, no care for the deck he wound up on.

After the car made it to Kirk and McCoy’s final destination, following the departure of other members of the crew, the captain and the doctor let the door close and stood in bewildered silence. To reinforce that he wasn’t hallucinating, Jim spoke, “Maybe he hates fruitcake?”

“People only think they hate fruitcake because they grow up hearing all the jokes. I get the strong impression that he’s never heard the one about the guy who ate a hammer and pounded nails with a fruitcake because the hammer was less likely to break his teeth.” He shifted and faced Kirk. “Spock doesn’t give two shits about fruitcake.”

“I don’t know what to do, Bones.”

“‘Bout what?”

“Seeing if this Chrismas-phobic Vulcan can be an all-round team player. I thought that putting him in with us where we’re outside the chain of command for a minute or two would let me get a better grasp on the guy as a person.” Jim realized he had a lot to consider.

“Probably for the best if you get ahold of Admiral Holt right now, start the process of getting a new person as your Number One.”

  
  
  
Connection made, a jumbled roar of voices drowned out the broadcast sporting event and the person answering Spock’s call. She smiled and waved until the chaos lifted for the next play. “Hello, Spock.”

“Greetings, Mollie.”

More noise had her shouting for her guests to keep it down so she could talk. “It’s an away game, so it’s my turn to host the watch party.”

Spock thought as much. “I would call back later, but I have an issue that requires attention now. Your counsel on the matter would be most appreciated.”

“If you don’t mind the zoo-like ambience on my end, I’m listening.” She took down her ponytail and put it right back up, clearing stray dark hairs out of her face.

“You know my regard on earth’s winter holidays.”

“Ugh.” She shook her head. “That’s right, new crew, new headaches. They never take no for an answer.”

“No, they do not.”

“Humans. Damn their greasy hides sometimes. Tunnel vision means they’ll be upset when you don’t happily join in on whatever idiocy they’ve got planned.” She let him have a stitch of a smile. “I’ve already managed to talk my way out of all the Christmas crap put on by the university, orchestra, and a couple groups of friends. The only thing I’m doing is the Ah’delevna-MacCormack shindig up at the Big House.”

“Will you offer my condolences on not attending again this year?” He was ninety-five to ninety-seven percent sure the invitation would arrive in his hand a little later having come in on the mail shuttle today.

“Sure. I’ll apologize because you’re off doing an important job and don’t have the luxury to come all the way back here for a few days of friends and family.”

“Yours is the only one of this type of event wherein I believe that I am honestly welcomed.”

“I know.” She said, tone soft. “Same goes for me too.”

Ready to ask more specific questions on the proper way to understand Captain Kirk’s infatuation with Spock and the party, the science officer nearly opened his mouth. Cut off by a crash of middling concern he kept quiet.

“Shit. Give me a second.” Mollie stepped away and it was less than half a minute before someone else wandered over to the active comm screen.

“Hey! It’s _fucking awesome_ to see you.” Joe Bergman, wearing one of his signature Hawaiian shirts, was beaming at the sight of the Vulcan. “I got our next book in the post to you. It’s a good one. I’m on a second read-through right now.”

“It arrived last night.” It almost made Spock motion sick the way Joe twitched and bounced all the time. The man had a perpetual case of Brownian Movement and showed no signal of slowing down any time soon.

“Good, good—” Joe’s shaggy blond head whipped around and he shouted, “ _Oh, come on_! Stupid bastard. Who taught you how to line judge, Ref? My blind, dead Grandma?”

Spock so did not miss the spectacle of sporting events. The sheer waste of energy funneled into strong emotion over the outcome of a match, wherein the viewer has an insignificant to no chance of influencing the final score, was mystifying to him.

“Fuck, I’m sorry.” If he was atoning for his outburst, Joe might have made progress in his rather grating behavior. “No, I’m not, but. . .”

A careful look around to chart where the other viewers were at, Joe leaned in so he could speak softly and not be overheard. “That crash a minute ago? Dear Zadie purposely shoved a vase of flowers to the floor. She doesn’t want Mollie talking to anybody, _especially you_.”

“She is an expert at making her needs known.” Spock said of Mollie’s ill-tempered girlfriend.

“We’ve got to get her away from that psycho and make sure she doesn’t date another human ever again. Mollie’s not stupid, she’s just naive."

"I believe I might have to agree with that assessment, Joe."

"I think she does pretty good for someone born and raised in Shi'Khar. But that means she's got this ingrained idea that people are honest: do what they say, say what they mean. This is the first time she’s ever dealt with a human who functions at this scummy sub-level. Vulcans don’t act like this, and Zadie is a pathological liar and master manipulator, exploiting Mollie's lack of experience every way she can.” Joe straightened as Mollie returned to the phone. “Nice talking to you again, Spock. I’ll see you later.”

“Where were we at?” He read some almost hidden exasperation in her face. “I think you were going to tell me about your captain’s party plans.”

By the end of the call, Spock and Mollie still hadn’t had a real conversation. Passive-aggressive. Zadie switched to a more aggressive mode, and would not let Mollie be. Kissing, touching, anything to keep Spock from his friend. Every chance the woman got, she glared at the screen, a silent declaration of, _She’s mine now you son of a bitch_.

Joe was correct in his judgement of Mollie’s romantic partner. For Spock, this was yet another situation where his involvement would be ineffectual, the distance was just too great. The best he could do from his post aboard the Enterprise was to be the voice on the other end of the line when things inevitably went bad.

No further resolution to his situation, he changed out of his uniform tunic and into a black meditation robe. Perhaps it would help to clear his mind.

***

Music, mathematics, and meditation spanned the hours from breakfast to lunch. Cucumber and hummus sandwiches, a completely new dish, made Spock a believer after the first bite. Dried grapes from the fruit vines on the other side of the tractor barn balanced out the savory of the main dish. He was telling Mollie that they should ask their mothers to make these for them after they returned to Shi’Kahr, when the front door opened, admitting four adults into the house.

“My mother is home.” Tralnor stated.

“She’s going to get after you for what you did, little brother.” Mollie wasn’t saying that he’d be chastised, but his mother would outline, _again_ , why utilizing his hyper-empathic abilities were best reserved for true emergencies.

Spock looked down, examining the fading damage to his wrists.“I did not want for you to get into trouble, Tralnor.”

“I’m not in trouble. T’Lal knows some people, like you, deserve estuhl t’hakausu.”

That the younger boy would say that about anything, but especially about the Healing Touch, augmented Spock’s nascent belief that he was indeed worthy of affection.


	3. Chapter 3

A different crew member was Spock’s courier tonight, which told him tomorrow’s postal shuttle was uncharacteristically early. She looked like she was going to faint or panic at the sight of him. He was too far up the chain of command for comfort and there was little he could do to alleviate her fear but make their transaction quick. The second he was in possession of his mail, she fled, leaving him to stand in his doorway and watch as she disappeared.

“ _Who’s been sending you gifts_?” His stalker-in-chief crawled up from some hidden storm sewer. Chapel craned her neck to read the shipping labels. “Let’s see, California? Do tell about your fabulous friends in Los Angeles.”

He sought a rarely needed vein of patience and said, “My friends, like the rest of my private life, are of no concern to you.”

A hopeful smile, vapid demeanor, she thought she’d sneak something past him by placing a hand on his arm. His reaction was to jerk back like she’d caught him with an electric livestock prod. A near stumble into his quarters set off some automated nurse instinct subroutine and she piled in after him, ostensibly to see that he was okay.

“Please, just let me—” She grabbed on and came close to landing her clammy fingers on his face!

Her other points of contact with his body driving him further into his quarters in an attempt to free himself from her touch, he was blessed that rank did have privileges. At that instant, the en suite private bathroom was a tornado shelter.

She had the temerity to knock on the door. “Mr. Spock. What are you doing?”

“I am waiting for you to go away.” Though, if it meant spending the night standing in his shower stall while holding his mail to avoid further contact with Nurse Chapel, he’d find a manner of getting comfortable.

“You know, I was thinking that maybe you and I should maybe get some dinner the next time Enterprise allows for shore leave.” While this individual wore a coating of shellac that allowed her to pose as a competent professional in her field, get the slightest bit of a peek into the real person behind the facade, the exasperating truth came out. Chapel was delusional and saw Spock as the perfect non-threatening male she could mold into the person she wanted as a partner for life.

“That is not possible.” He’d hole up in a closet or maintenance junction, for days, to avoid a shore leave disaster with this warped shell of a person.

“If this is about— _Oh, Spock, you don’t have to be ashamed_.” The velour shoulder of her uniform dragged across the bathroom door. “I can help you with that.”

Perhaps silence would drive her away?

“You’ve led a busy life and you don’t have a lot of opportunity to meet people. I understand.” She probably had a dreamy glaze to her eyes to match her little-girl fantasy. “A lot of people wait until later.”

He was gaining an understanding of the old human idiom, _She’s driving me to drink_. It wasn’t just the nurse. He could name off several other individuals who fit the description. Nights like this made him almost wish he’d not developed such a strong aversion to alcohol, no thanks to other humans who’d wreaked havoc in his past.

“Still being a _virgin_ at your age is nothing to be embarrassed about.”

That was it. Door open, ignoring this person away not a viable option, he took two quick steps toward her, half-spooking the silly woman. She backpedaled and made for the living area. He’d faced down this assumption before, that his demeanor and cultural background automatically dictated that he was incapable of wanting let alone having sex.

“It’s not a bad thing, I swear.” She seemed to hit a juncture where she couldn’t figure out whether to leave or start unzipping her dress. “Quickly and painlessly remedied, we’ll call it my Christmas present to you—”

“You are some two decades too late if you thought you would be the one to deflower me.” He did something that was not normally on his schedule of observed behaviors. Hand on an upper arm, only after bracing his psionic shields against her omnipresent hysteria, he escorted her into the hall and left her standing in the middle of the foot traffic.

When this door slid shut and he no longer had to look at her simpering face, he needed some seconds to collect his thoughts. He pulled his mail off the sink surround and added it to the unopened package from yesterday. The smallest, flattest parcel was the one thing he was certain he’d get today. Return address marked Old Highway 99, Turlock, it was the invitation to this year’s gathering at the Big House. Spock readily admitted that he remembered his Christmases with the Ah’delevna-MacCormacks with a sentimental fondness reserved for almost nothing else.

His mind returned to that very first Christmas he spent on earth, how he’d not believed in his father’s regard for the situation with Ben and Shelby Wright-Grayson. Only years after the fact, when Justin offered up his memories regarding that trip in a good-faith demonstration that his claims of Sarek’s paternal benevolence toward Spock were the truth, did the science officer catch a hint that perhaps the ambassador was more than the stern, distant man he’d always known.

***

Time differences, sunspot activity, and faulty communications hardware on Proxima Rusalka meant Justin didn’t get through to Spock’s parents until about sixteen hours after the boy was taken to Turlock. Even though he’d braced them for the disturbing news, and he expected to see the blowback directed at Ben and Shelby, Justin was impressed by Amanda’s resolve and Sarek’s seething anger.

Livid, emerald rage, and a streak of lurid obscenities burst forth from the Ambassador and no amount of reasoning from his wife was going to bring him down. Ready to create hundreds of thousands in property damage in the very least, and certainly capable of breaking a human femur with his bare hands, he began on a quest to toss all of his and Amanda’s things into their luggage so they could get the first and fastest transport to earth he could find.

“I’m telling you this as your friend, sit the fuck down and breathe.” Justin, still incandescent in his own regard about the Grayson cousins fought like hell to not slide and feed into Sarek’s righteous anger.

“Do not come to earth right now, Sa-pi-maat.” T’Lal had, since she was a child, referred to Sarek by a word that meant male relative, circumventing the unwritten rules of Clan Surak/Clan Lyr Saan interaction.

“Your advice, while appreciated, will not be followed.” He was now in a closet pulling clothing off hangers.

Amanda got up and placed her hand over his, slowing the frenetic activity. “Sarek, he’s safe and with people who treat him like he’s one of their own. Please, sit down.”

She offered him enough of a distraction that Sarek got a split second to spend on rational thought. He set their cases on the bed and engaged in the conversation instead of caving to visceral reaction. He said, “Thank you, Justin, for saving our son. Your family’s generosity and rapid action can never be fully repaid.”

“So we’ll call it a gift instead of a debt, and that keeps us on even ground. You’d do the same for Tralnor or Mollie.” Justin let one of his hands go to his side where T’Lal seized the chance to have her husband in close contact.

“We’ll work on getting back to San Francisco, but only after Sarek contacts the right authorities.” Amanda, based on what her face gave away, was barely keeping it together. She asked again for Spock’s medical condition, making sure he was on the mend. “My cousin never used to be the person you’ve described. I don’t know if he’s undergone a fundamental change or if he was always a swine but was an expert at hiding it. They are very fortunate that it's four days at the very least before I darken their door.”

“Do you want for one of us to return to Big Bear and pick up the rest of Spock’s effects?” T’Lal could get down and back in record time and probably in and out of the Wright-Grayson vacation home without any obvious traces that she’d been breaking and entering. “I am not speaking of things like clothing. Grandma Nora has taken care of that issue as of early today.”

“He was sent with a gift from us. If Cousin Ben gets his hands on it, we’ll never see it again.” Amanda’s utter bewilderment had settled as a grim affectation. “I know that in the end, it’s just a thing, but. . .”

“It would cultivate a modicum of goodwill that the Wright-Graysons relinquish that which is not theirs.” Sarek, who’d come close to tamping down on his tumult obviously needed some more time to recover. “Amanda’s father’s pocket watch is more than an object. It has passed through many generations of her family and is part of our son’s heritage. Thus it should not fall into the grasps of people of Benjamin and Shelby’s persuasion.”

“We’ll get that taken care of.”

“You could not have chosen two better people for this effort.” T’Lal commented. “We will affect the return of your father’s watch.”

***

The larger package from the night before revealed a lovely tray of dried peaches, dried grapes, shelled almonds, and pistachios all from his friends’ central California holdings. Popping one of the sweet, chewy peach slices into his mouth, Spock was relieved that the day was on the calendar closer to passing by these not-so-happy holidays.

What was this year’s invitation going to look like? Grandma Nora always picked themes and colors with which to work into her annual event. Last year was _An Evening at Rick’s Cafe American_ , before that _A Very Vegas Black Tie Affair_. The pearlescent envelope was hued somewhere between rosy pink and magenta. What that meant, he had no idea.

The penknife slit open the fold on the flap. Fingers pinched over the custom stationery and he removed the envelope. Starfish, seahorses, glitter, and lights amongst the colorful designs distracted him. How was this related to Nora’s traditional get-together? Pink foil embossed script tied these together. It said, _Have a Most Merry Fishmas_! Appreciating that play on words, he opened the invitation, read all the details, and stopped to focus on the handwritten component. The MacCormack’s always took the time to add personal touches to things, even individual announcements being sent out to hundreds of people. There, on the heavy, shimmery stock, was Spock’s full name and a personalized message inscribed in Golic script.

He took stock that some people would like to have him around as more than an exercise in workplace team building. Trying to move into other thoughts, his door chimed. Invitation set aside, he got up to answer the summons, not wanting to allow Chapel another chance at making a fool of herself.

“Captain?”

Momentary distraction had James Kirk in a slight lean with his head turned to the left. A feline smirk of satisfaction didn’t fade as he said, “How did we get this lucky that amongst Starfleet’s best and brightest are so many beautiful women?”

“I will not answer that.” Spock’s response knocked some sense back into the human. 

“May I?” Kirk indicated his desire to not linger in the doorway.

Spock stood aside and let the man through.

***

After dinner, following the children’s required forty-five-minutes of reading, a light dessert was served, then everyone was asked to congregate in the living room. A real fire on the hearth only added to the family atmosphere. Grandma Nora stood near to the door that led into the decorations’ storage space. A heady buzz of curiosity radiated off the children. The adults seemed to know what was going on. Spock wasn’t following all the excitement and not until Mollie’s mother, Livia stepped up and said something did he start to understand.

“Na’tu, Ko’mekh-il ma tan.” _Grandmother has a gift for you._

He must have looked confused. Why would Nora have a gift for him? “Ri ken-tor.”

Livia gently touched him between the shoulder blades, benevolence toward him purposely bleeding over. “Go get it and it will make sense.”

That’s when the boy noticed the gift box in Nora’s hand. Sparkling, festooned with curly ribbon, he still had to wonder what might motivate anyone to get him something. Propelled off Livia’s fingertips, he went up to Nora and accepted the present.

“Now, Spock, you weren’t here for everything and we really don’t want to put you on the spot, but this is something we need you to open right now.” Nora issued her instruction.

His fingers twitched and he tore into the paper the same way he’d been shown at his and Mollie’s combined fourth birthday party. The whole room grew quiet. Stripped down to the point where the container could be opened, Spock lifted the lid.

Awe. That’s what he would later call the flood feelings at that moment. “It is _my_ name.”

Free from the container, Spock held it up where he could take in the details of the gleaming purple globe. A look to the tree for a quick comparison between the item he held and others like it showed the same hand at work as had written on many other ornaments bearing the names of people in that room.

“Now, you have to put it on the tree.” Mollie said.

He twisted to address her. “Where does it go?”

His friend led him to the artificial evergreen. “It goes anywhere you want it to.”

***

“I need to apologize for the way I’ve been acting. It’s unprofessional and counterproductive to force you into doing something you clearly don’t want to do.” The captain had tapped into reality and returned to Spock’s abode. “And we’ve still got a lot of years to go on this mission. I want this, us, to work out.”

“I too would prefer a copathetic relationship.” Spock, even though he didn’t show it, found the captain’s sense of wonder, enthusiasm, and driving need to learn as much as he could about almost anything, was without compare. This man’s near-endless desire to live up to the letter of their mission’s motto was infectious.

“Fantastic, Spock.” A smile and luminous quality in his eyes had the human leaving a good impression on the science officer. “Looks like that second mail shuttle got in a day early. A Christmas miracle is what that is.”

Less put-upon and certainly feeling more respected, Spock offered Kirk a hot tea, and whatever he wanted from the fruit and nut tray. He heard molars breaking up some almonds. Content that he could pop over to the sink and back with the water, he left for the other room.

“That’s really cute, Fishmas.” Kirk got a look at Nora’s invitation when he reached over to collect a peach.

“Family friends.” He wasn’t going to give an in-depth description. “They always see to it that I get an invitation, despite my job commitment and their event taking place in California.”

“You know something, that’s really good to hear.”

Lid off the tea tin, a relic of a Christmas past, Spock chose a particularly citrusy Earl Grey. He observed Kirk’s unbridled joy at whatever was whirling around in his head. Beverage steeping, Spock turned back around, facing his prep area. Struck by a peculiar thought he—

“Part of my insistence on forcing you to go to my party was that, based on what little I actually know about you, I was honestly worried that you had nothing and no one. I don’t know how it works for people like you, but with humans, a lot of us struggle with being alone during these year-end celebrations.” The candor, removed from the want to impress a party on anyone, was refreshing.

Two cups and the pot brought over to the desk, Spock thought, _It is not only humans who struggle_.

  
***

It was, by Spock’s extrapolation, nearing two in the morning. He’d yet to hear the expression about pinching oneself as confirmation that something had taken place and had awoken, thinking he was in Big Bear. What he’d thought was another pummeling getting ready to rain down from the Grayson boys was actually Mollie breathing in his ear. She, like the other children in the sleeping porch, was fast asleep.

He got out of bed, possessed by a need to see with his own eyes that his name was genuinely on the tree. Stepping lightly, stopping only long enough to put on the fleece bathrobe Nora had gotten for him, he went straight from the porch to the living room. His innate ability to see in what to humans was near-total dark, he didn’t need to slow his procession to find his ornament.

The slightest image of his distorted reflection shown in that purple ball. Reassured that he’d not started making things up, transfixed by the mere inclusion of his name, his presence, in this place, he’d not paid attention to the creaks and groans of the somnambulant house. Spock jumped when the twinkle lights turned on.

“I know I should be in bed, Sir.” Spock said to Justin.

“For this, I think we can let you slide.” He let himself into the storage room, emerging with an adhesive- backed hook and a decorative sock.

The human passed through the room to the hanging collection of similar items. Justin mounted the sock and said, “The glue hadn’t quite finished curing when we had you put your ornament on the tree. I thought I’d get this hung up now so you had something else to come down to in the morning.”

Lights, casting their various hues gave Spock an idea of what it might be like to sit inside of a refractory prism. It was hard to discern the true color of the new item hanging on the wall, but like the inscribed tree decoration, this too bore his name.

“They’re stockings.” Justin pointed to the one belonging to him. “Just like the ornaments, they go up year after year. I’ve had mine since I was younger than you are now. I still look forward to coming down on Christmas morning and finding all the little treats that will be tucked inside it.”

Spock got closer to the stockings. His was placed between Mollie’s and Tralnor’s. Each of the three, while similar in form, was hardly the same. Someone had deliberately taken the time and effort to create one for him and only him.

Justin had stepped in and out of the storage room again, emerging with more wrapped packages like the ones already on the floor beneath the tree. “Don’t try to shake this one. That will tear the paper and ruin the surprise. The others, I think, are fair game.”

“You and your family are very gracious.” Taken aback that after all they had done for him, Spock had not expected anything more. “It is most fortuitous that we are associated.”

“Yes, indeed.” Justin took an end of the couch closest to the fireplace and indicated that Spock should sit. “The initial reason I woke up is that I heard back from Sarek and Amanda. Assuming they don’t have any issues with holiday travel, they’ll be in at the end of the week.”

“They do not need to end their trip to come and see me.” Spock and his mother had made the initial voyage with her leaving him in the supposedly capable hands of her favorite cousin, Ben.

“But, they want to.”

He didn’t know how he felt about that and chose not to pursue the thought pathway that would allow him to find out. “My father wants to see me?”

“Very much so.” Justin’s words didn’t have the false lilt to them of adults who were trying to placate children. Even so, Spock didn’t know if he believed him.

***

 _I am finding that I like the way you smile at me_ , Spock’s random thought caught him unawares. _I would like to think that the kindness and misplaced enthusiasm you have shown is not a front_.

“So, when I decided that I’d try to get into the Academy, it was already five weeks into the process. I felt like an organ grinder’s monkey, dancing around, flapping my arms, trying to get the attention of anyone authorized to submit a Proposal for Appointment.” Amusement at his own challenges, that was something not often seen in humans. To James Kirk, problems were opportunities in wait for a little rearrangement. “I thought I was going to have to wait, probably kick around at University of Iowa for a year, and try again for the next cohort. People sneer and say that legacies have it made, all they need to do is put their names down on some mythical list, and we’re in. Just because George Kirk was my dad didn’t mean I had it easy.”

“There are those who rely on family names and connections to get them through their lives.” Spock knew that well, had grown up around so many children who thought the happenstance of being born into Clan Surak gave them an inherent superiority.

“I never would have wanted it that way. I don’t like hollow victories.” Micro-adjustments, on an entirely subconscious scale, showed Kirk becoming comfortable in this not-quite-human-friendly space. “So, I finally found, after scouring the whole planet, or at least it felt like I did, an old retired dentist who used his Starfleet pension to set up his private practice. It grew, he got some recognition, gave the business to his kid after twenty-two years.

“To this day, I don’t know what he saw in me. I was the proverbial day late and dollar short, but after a weekend of fishing and talking about what it was like out here, he wrote my proposal. When I was leaving, he told me the two things that took him through school, through Starfleet, through his career. One was collecting the information for knowing the when, where, and why of other people, and other places. The second was learning the art of delivering a humble, meaningful apology.” Captain Kirk drew his expository tale to a close having essentially said that he wasn’t the fustian boy-king as described by many of the brass. He had the capacity to expand his knowledge base and made massive inroads to becoming the best possible person and commander possible.

Spock topped off their mugs and was fast to quash a niggle in the furthest reaches of his thoughts before it had time to crystallize and drop a bomb on this nascent working relationship. That smile was warmth deliberately shared with others, the sign of a captain who gave a real damn about his crew, and it was a physical landmark that if Spock observed closely and followed that set of curved lines on a tour of the landmarks on that face, there was no way to deny the germination of attraction.

“You know, Spock—” Offered a pecan shortbread, Kirk allowed for the momentary distraction of a homemade treat. A bite, “Goddamn, that’s good. Where did you order these from?”

“They arrived yesterday and were made and sent by my mother.” _Please do not ask for details. I am not in a place with you that I can make those revelations, Kirk_. “She is a very good baker.”

“I’ll second you on that. I’m not usually a shortbread kind of guy, but this is fantastic.” Positive emotion and satiation suited the captain.

“I shall inform my mother that you praised her work.”

Cookie gone, lips licked, and the return of the golden grin, Kirk said, “As I was trying to say before your very buttery diversion, I’d like it a lot if you and I could be friends.”

***

Dismissed from the music room, the kids were headed into town to buy gifts for their parents. Justin’s sisters, Livia and Theresa would load them up into a couple of vehicles if and when all members of the shopping party could get their act together. Some of the boys were more interested in sliding down the banisters or running off into the orchards to play. The teens wanted to get back to what they considered civilization and ditch the little kids. And the three of the under-twelves who spent most of their lives on Vulcan? Spock and Mollie were trying to talk sense to Tralnor about not wearing his bathrobe on their outing.

“The regular coat isn’t long enough and I will get cold.” Tralnor jammed his hands deep into the pockets and grabbed on.

“You’re going to trip and fall because the robe is too long and drags on the floor.” Mollie spoke the truth. The youngest child had inherited one of older cousin Jason’s old dressing gowns, therefore Tralnor was in a garment that would still fit in two or three years. “Take it off so we can go.”

“But, Mollie. . .” Tralnor protested. “It’s scary to be cold.”

“Tralnor, come on!” The robe’s former owner hollered from the sleeping porch’s doorway. “I don’t think you know what it's even like to be cold.”

“Tralnor, what’s wrong?” Mollie backed off on her stance.

A disconcerting cascade of reactionary expressions took to the littlest boy’s face before settling on fear. He blinked rapidly and seemed like he was dodging an outbreak of tears. Tralnor shook his head then spoke. “I don’t know what it's like to freeze.”

“And you’re not gonna know unless you take a plane to Antarctica.” Jason held out a hand to collect the tardy-making article of clothing.

“But Spock does. . .”

Spock didn’t get accusatory looks, but it was hard to not interpret them that way. There was a disaster going on and who’s fault was it? _Sometimes, I believe, that the only justification for my existence is that I bring others down_.

“You, put on your stupid normal coat.” Jason directed Tralnor. “Spock, you wear my extra sweater over what you have on.”

“Because Tralnor can feel what happened to you.” Mollie could follow along with Jason’s solution. “If you stay warm, he will too.”

“What’s the hold up?” Livia had come to find her missing passengers. A rapid telepathic exchange between mother and daughter and Livia was nodding. “An acceptable outcome.”

Old bathrobe relinquished, addition layers distributed, Spock lingered back when the rest of the children took off for the side yard nearest the tractor barn. Livia’s hand on his shoulder, he said, “Perhaps it is better that I do not go with them.”

“Kan t’nash-vey.” _Child of mine_ , she always said it in a way that purposely reminded him he was beloved, that through the complicated process that brought about his birth, Livia’s claim was absolute. “I think it's for the best that you do.”

“Tralnor might not agree. I do not want to keep causing him pain.”

Livia Ah’delevna-MacCormack wasn’t just his best friend’s mother, wasn’t just one of the physicians and researchers that worked tirelessly to conceive him. She was an unconditionally supportive presence woven throughout his life. His thoughts conflicted, about her and the family she came from. He wanted desperately to believe in their version of him and a beautiful world with him in it, but that was in direct opposition to powerful experiences that saw him bullied, almost universally derided, and nearly murdered. “My nephew is trying to help you in the only way he knows how. As he gets older, he’ll gain better controls and filtering techniques to more accurately gauge yours or anyone else’s needs.”

This, she could not disagree with, and Spock said, “Would it not be more sensical to keep me away when I should have my own controls at the level someone of my age is supposed to have.”

“You are just fine and your emotional development and expression is right where it should be.”

“I disagree.” He’d restate what he heard all the time. “I am rasahtra koshvar T’Kahsong sular. I will remain destructive to all of Vulcan and right now, Tralnor is getting the brunt of my failure.”

 _A cancer of Vulcan and her people_. Livia’s eyes closed involuntarily as she took the blow of such harsh words he used in describing himself. Two deep breaths and she was looking at him again. Where Amanda cried at hearing these comments, Livia had some understanding of where Spock was coming from. Like Justin, she’d lived a life of being regarded as less than because of how she was born.

“Spock, please join us.” She took him by the hand, bombarding him with approval, giving the positive motivation he needed to get moving.

***

“Coal?” Jim Kirk thought he needed his ears cleaned out. When Spock insisted that was the substance he’d been talking about, the captain had to stop and catch his own head before it spun right off his shoulders. “Those bastards filled you bed with coal?”

“One of many poorly executed jokes aimed at me during my time at the Academy.” He wouldn’t say anything about his roommate, a man nearly everyone in their class called The Toad, and his equally as warty friends, lobbing condoms filled with a nasty concoction of ginger ale, clothes detergent gel, and a mixture of red, green, and silver confetti.

“I’ve got to ask, are all of your Christmas stories this shitty?” What did people think they were going to accomplish by harassing someone that way? Sure, Kirk thought, Spock’s a strange guy, but never has he ever done anything to warrant the variety of abuse piled on him.

Kirk was pretty certain he saw a distant sadness in Spock’s eyes. The captain found himself wondering, _What can I do to help you create new memories? I’m not conceited enough to think that I need to make you smile or try to force happiness on you, but maybe we can temper the misery_?

***

Window displays, music, the overwhelming scents of sweets and pine, the atmosphere of this outing bordered on too fantastical to be true. Snow, thankfully of the fake variety, made for an odd contrast to the still-green lawns seen the merchant district. People were everywhere, part of the race to get gifts sourced before the deadline of the twenty-fifth.

Spock looked in a lit case, going over the different jewelry items that would be a good choice for his mother. He knew she’d like whatever he got for her, but he wanted to put some thought into this selection. Flanked by Mollie and Tralnor, who were making similar decisions about their own mothers, Spock asked the clerk to see a bracelet that reminded him of Amanda.

Faceted Tanzanite, inlaid blue opal, white sapphires, all set in a hinged band made from yellow gold, it was bright, colorful, and captivating, all qualities she had. “That is the one.”

“Your mother is a very lucky lady.” The clerk was more than happy to wait on these young customers. “Let me get this set back for you.”

“Is it just me or are there more of them this year compared to last?” A woman said to her friend. Both appeared to be in their thirties.

“I think there’s more. They’ve brought in reinforcements from off-world.”

Mollie sent out a mental tendril where Spock and Tralnor could hear her. (Ilee Stevick and Helen Drake, they grew up with my mom.)

“Just what this town needs, a three-pack of green-blooded sandworms getting in on the MacCormack sideshow action.” The first woman said.

(And they’re not very nice.) Mollie said of the two adults picking on three little kids. (Ilee still has a lot of anger for Livia because my mom beat her in almost everything. Grades, scholarships, section chairs in band, she even thinks my mom stole her boyfriend.)

The last comment said more to Spock about how these old rivals needed excuses to condone their jealousy and other unpleasant behavior. (I do not understand. Why would Livia want another person’s male partner? She is ko-ka-ashausu.)

Liva’s homosexuality notwithstanding, Spock viewed this encounter with a comprehension that the very children who delighted in visiting hell upon him now would continue to do so until he finally took to his grave.

Mollie liked the green garnet necklace one case over from Spock’s bracelet. She asked his opinion of the necklace compared to a ring set with a cushion-cut pink tourmaline. Ready to say he favored the garnet, the women started in again.

“Oh no, Helen, the girl only _looks_ human. The way I’ve heard it told, she might as well have the pointy ears to keep people from thinking she’s a normal kid.”

“Ilee, we all know the MacCormacks aren’t normal.” The women laughed and lingered until Spock and Mollie went to the till. Ilee continued on her thoughts about the children whom she was picking on. “At least these ones are here and gone. They’ll be back on Tatooine before new years.”

“Maybe they can leave us with some of their money. Did you see the price tag on that bracelet? Eye-watering.”

“Did you see the sales commission when two biddies came into the jewelry shop and bought nothing?” The clerk’s retort staggered the rude pair of friends.

Diner tables pushed together, hot chocolates, coffees, and mulled ciders on order, Aunty Theresa was reminding her charges that her allowance that they pick anything on the menu did not mean it was acceptable to have a butterscotch sundae for lunch. The kids chattered, comparing purchases and relating who they had left to buy for.

Spock was listening as Tralnor explained what a loaded hashbrown consisted of when the now-familiar voices of Ilee and Helen tinged the atmosphere. What were they hoping to accomplish?

“They are deeply troubled people, especially Ilee.” Tralnor said as a not-quite-shout rankled the collective mood in the restaurant.

“She’s about as queer as a damned ruler.” Ilee’s grudge knew no timespan.

“Why don’t you think she’s gay, Ilee?”

“Because, Helen. That’s the line she uses to disarm the wives and girlfriends of the men she’s seducing. She pretends that she’s safe and gets us all comfortable. Then she bites us in the ass.”

“They refuse to accept the burden of what they did and said to Livia.” Tralnor squinted his eyes into razor-thin slivers, working to create an effective barrier against the disgust and ire. “What happened is because Ilee wanted to hide a secret.”

Spock admitted that he took great solace that he didn’t have the widespread psionic abilities that manifested in Tralnor. Granted just enough of his people’s telepathic legacy to function in society, he was for once glad that his human genes played interference. Having witnessed the younger boy’s mental encumbrance, empathic traits on such a scale that touching objects that gave off manifested energy of people who’d come before left him reeling. It saddened Spock, seeing Tralnor’s face screw up and tears dance down his cheeks because of an unstoppable tsunami of someone else’s smoldering emotions. Then there was taking on another child’s physical wounds, Spock could not imagine dealing with that hardship.

Another read of the menu, ready to ask for rice and beans with a fruit plate on the side, Spock heard, (I’m stuck in my sweater.)

Mollie, in an attempt at shucking a hooded cardinal and gold University of Southern California sweatshirt, moved just the wrong way and got it bunched up at her shoulders and chin where it was difficult to move her arms. “Help.”

“Hold on.” One of the teens, Tabitha, came around from the other side of the table and tugged on the garment. “It’s like you’ve never worn one of these before.”

“I haven’t.” Mollie’s words were indistinct. “There isn’t a lot of need for stuff like sweatshirts and raincoats in ShiKahr.”

“ _Oh, may the gods of sarcasm visit you Little One so that someday you may understand_.” Tabitha got in one more good tug—

“What is that!” Ilee did shout this time.

Pulling her two base-layer shirts back down, Mollie asked if the women were talking about her. None of the kids knew and they were visited by the servers before any more inquiry into the misbehaving women would be made.

“Now, kiddo, I brought you a hot chocolate since little guys your age don’t really like coffee.” The young waitress set the drink in front of Tralnor.

“I don’t want hot chocolate.” Tralnor slid the mug away. “However, I need the coffee.”

“It helps him with his sinuses.” Mollie said. “Coffee is more like medicine than the chocolate.”

“I go to school with Richie. He said he had a cousin who started drinking coffee at age two. I think he said you had too much snot and not enough face because you have a human dad and a Vulcan mom.” The waitress grinned. “Let me get that coffee for you.”

“Too much snot. . . That girl is funny.” Mollie’s face stayed neutral in expression, but Spock sensed her amusement. “Hey, where are you going?”

“Aunty Theresa said we are not to indulge in ice cream. I want to see what there is for pie. I’m looking in the case.”

“Tralnor, you are such a silly fungus sometimes.” Mollie gave her lunch request to the other waitress who’d been tasked with taking down the food orders.

Curious about this pie case, Spock watched to see what such a thing was. Refrigerated, with a revolving center rack, whole pastries and individual slices went round and round, enticing the customers. “I believe Theresa was implying that none of the desserts are to replace this meal.”

“Look out, it’s wandered away from its troop and is on the loose.” Helen smiled like she thought she was clever.

“Not for long.” Ilee said. “I’m going to march it right back over there and keep it away from me. Proof that some children need to be put in cages.”

Tralnor’s innocent excursion to view the sweets crashed into Ilee’s bitter irritation at her old high school foe. She got a tight hold on his left hand and started to tug him back toward the other side of the dining room. He gave a semi-vocal wheeze that stopped her cold.

“ _Oh no_.” Mollie reached for and settled her fingers in Spock’s. “ _This is going to be bad_.”

Spock agreed. Those suffocating empathic abilities he’d just been thinking about fired on all thrusters. Tralnor, not entirely himself based on the blank expression of his eyes, began crying someone else’s tears. Livia and Theresa quickly encroached on Ilee, both hesitant to snap the boy away and abruptly break the psionic link.

“What the fuck, kid?” Ilee’s words lacked the earlier spiteful tone.

“ _Was it something I did wrong? Why would a father do that to his little girl? I thought if I loved him enough he’d stop._ ” Tralnor didn’t sound like he normally spoke. “ _But he never stopped coming into my room at night_.”

Ilee blanched, eyes wide with some iteration of fear, but she didn’t shake loose of him.

“ _And when I told Ethan, I thought he’d understand. He didn’t want me because of what happened and he told me it made me like a bruised up piece of fruit. He didn’t want me. I had too much damage. . ._ ”

Tralnor doubled over, freeing his hand, still disconnected from reality, sobbing in Ilee’s anguish. Livia snatched him up, immediately taking him out to the car. She could be heard saying, “Ashaya-kan, fun-tor t’utvau. . .”

 _Beloved child, return to verity_. . .

“If you’ve ever wondered why it’s in excruciatingly bad taste to touch one of them without an express invitation to do so, especially children, you’ve lived the answer.” Theresa’s English boarding school accent added a sense of authority to her words. “Now everybody knows you threw my sister under the bus because you needed someone to blame for your trash fire of a boyfriend dumping you.”

Ilee blinked and glanced around.

“I’m going to give you the name of someone Livia and I went to medical school with. She does an excellent job of helping people who’ve experienced familial abuse. Perhaps that means the next time Livia and I are back in town, you’ll have started on a path of healing.”

“Come on, hon. Let’s get you home.” Helen took hold of her friend and escorted her out the door.

  
  
  
Lunch became a subdued affair and the day lost its shine. The last of the shopping went quickly because everyone wanted out of the public’s scrutiny. Spock was relieved to finally get back to the car.

In the back seat, Livia sat reading a book while Tralnor slept beside her. The other kids got in slow, kept quiet, and didn’t ask any questions. Spock hesitated, choosing to see if Livia might give an answer to one of those things he’d wanted to know from the moment he was aware of it. “Is what happened to him today the reason the Golic clans believe the Lyr Saan are unstable?”

“One of thousands of excuses.” Mollie said. “I think they’d be lost if they didn’t hate and fear us.”

“Is he going to be okay?” Spock had known Tralnor since just shortly after the younger boy was born. With all the strange and oddly endearing things he’d seen Tralnor do, Spock had never witnessed an interaction like this. The reason, Golic Vulcans, so pretentious about outward appearances and the opinions of others, were afraid of people like Tralnor was what the hyper-empaths showed them too much about themselves. _If you are honest with yourself, a mair-rigolauya is no more of a threat than any other person_.

“He’ll be fine. Give him time to sleep it off.” Livia resettled in the driver's seat and let Spock take over watching Tralnor. One last check that everyone was buckled in and nothing forgotten at the restaurant or any of the shops, she got them on Old Highway 99 and went south.

***

After another hour of trading life stories, Kirk cracked another almond in his teeth. “Tell me to blow it out my ass if you don’t want to answer, but I feel like I have to know: What happened to your horrific aunt and uncle? I’ve been mulling it over the last twenty-four hours and I want to see police reports and jail records for those two. They were such scum.”

“Their comeuppance was twofold.”

Unable to stifle a satisfied grin, the captain uttered, “ _Yes_.”

That reaction was soon followed by the human trying to apologize for his blatant joy at other people’s misery. It wasn’t proper decorum, but some folks needed their asses handed to them.

Spock didn’t challenge Jim’s quasi-inappropriate happiness. “First, Ben and Shelby Wright-Grayson received a second visit from my friend’s uncle.”

“I’m already liking this. Any guy who can kick a doorframe out of a wall to save a kid is okay in my book.”

“From the details he dispensed to me at a much later date, Ben and Shelby were less than pleased to see him and were horrified at his Vulcan wife.” He thought he could give the captain a highly sanitized telling of Justin and T’Lal’s visit to Big Bear. “They left on the morning of the second day after I was rescued. . .”

***

“It wasn’t much to see in the dark, but this place is gorgeous.” Justin got down from the passenger seat. “Too bad it's inhabited by a tribe of murderous asshats.”

She didn’t say anything, but drew her heavy coat in tighter, and followed her husband up the walk. They stepped around discarded toys and other random items unceremoniously hurled from the front porch. They Grayson boys had a penchant of wanting their playthings to freeze to death as well.

“Here goes.” Justin touched the doorbell. A cacophony of yelling children fumbled and ran toward the door. Screams about parcel delivery and Santa being cheap made him gladder than before that none of these three little monsters was his.

“Get back!” Ben ordered. Instead of compliance, the boys got louder and started stomping and hitting the door in a coordinated effort at manipulating their father into granting their wishes.

Doorbell rung once more, Ben had shoved the hellions back enough to get the portal open to the point where a package could be maneuvered through the gap. “Do I need to sign—”

“Good morning, Mr. Grayson. My sincerest regrets that I left the other night without giving you my name.” It was rare when Justin granted a smile to anyone outside of his closest friends and family. This expression was not meant to convey a sense of ease but was rather a fair warning that the Wright-Graysons needed to watch out.

“I don’t have anything to say to you that you. So, unless you brought a deputy sheriff along with Trixie the Pixie to serve a frivolous warrant, get the fuck off my porch and never come back.” Again, Ben tried to act like the big man.

“I was hoping to not have to involve law enforcement at this point. All that’s going to do is lengthen the time we’re here and add more claims against you on creating an openly hostile environment for a child entrusted in your care.” Foot over the doorjamb, the only direction Justin was moving was into the house.

The kids swarmed, bleating about being scared of the man who’d kicked their garden shed apart until Ben hollered at them and sent them scattering to places unknown. “I hope you’ve got a good lawyer.”

“You are in luck then, Sir. I just so happen to be an attorney.” He wasn’t going to mention that beyond his law school clerkships, he’d never worked a single day in the legal profession proper. He’d passed the bar, maintained his license, but only used his training in how it pertained to the juridical recognition of Artificial Intelligences.

“I believe I have found it.” T’Lal said. “It should be readily accessible.”

“What are you on about, Greenie?”

T’Lal took the pejorative in stride. “Where my husband is here to discuss the ramifications of what was done to Spock, I am here to retrieve his belongings, one item specifically.”

“Fine. All the kid brought with him was some clothes.” Ben didn’t know how to position himself so it was less likely his unexpected guests could push their way in.

“I hear it.” Head slightly cocked to the left, she listened for a couple more seconds.

“I don’t know what the hell her problem is.” Ben adjusted his hands to where he could try to slam the door and would fail. “And if you weren’t already outed as a mindfreak, you really could pass for normal. Even so, how do you not get puking sick every time you fuck her?”

Not rising to the bait Justin waited on the bilge. (Let the vile little man get it out of his system. When he’s said his piece, I’ll give him two options on allowing our entry.)

(Your plan is sound.) She stood fast.

“How you and my cousin can let yourselves be mentally raped and controlled by these degenerate alien creatures is beyond my comprehension. _They’re nothing but filth_.”

“Mr. Grayson, your choice, are we doing this the easy way or the hard way?” Justin removed the glove on his right hand.

“What? Are you going to slap me around with that, make me say sorry for hurting your feelings? Fucking get on with it and get the hell off my property.” Ben’s teeth-baring sneer made his slightly doughy face look like the death mask of a hippopotamus.

“You sir, have chosen the easy way. I much appreciate that.” Justin’s bare hand shot up and connected with the side of Ben’s neck. As the chauvinist shit heel opened his big mouth to object, he went down like the proverbial sack of potatoes, unconscious before flopping to the floor. “I like easy.”

“ _Trixie the Pixie_.” T’Lal mulled the saying as they stepped over Ben and made entry. “A new insult where I did not think such a thing was possible. I shall add it to my portfolio.”

Justin followed after his wife, letting her incredibly sensitive ears lead them to the item they wanted to capture. He paid a little attention to the house but was more interested in chasing those boys off if they dared to show their faces before the watch was found. “Let me state the painfully obvious: these people have far more money than brains.”

“And one cannot purchase additional IQ points at any price.” She stopped at a coat closet adjacent to the kitchen and in close proximity to the back door. Bypassing all the winter gear belonging to the males of the household, she went through one of Shelby’s ski parkas before setting into a charcoal grey peacoat. Hand withdrawn, the timepiece arrived in Justin’s line of sight. It had a small sheet of notepaper rubber-banded around it.

_I say sell. Ben says give it to our oldest since he’s the true Grayson heir._

“Such pleasant people. I cannot fathom how anyone could be unhappy here.” Justin got his glove back on right as a sauté pan came flying at his head. A lucky dodge and then a duck from a heavy-duty corkscrew, the only reason he didn’t flee Shelby’s wrath was that he wanted to see T’Lal rise to the action.

“Motherfuckers!” Shelby pitched anything she could get in her hands.

Something small, a new bar of soap, left its drainer dish and sailed across the floor. T’Lal didn’t look like she was reacting to spontaneous violence, rather, her response was fluid and rehearsed. That day, Justin learned a strange if valuable lesson, a well-targeted bar of soap thrown at fastball speed can take a human out and leave them as deadweight until they collapsed to the ground.

“And after all of this, they still get to face Hurricane Sarek.” Justin held his arm out so they might return to their vehicle hand-in-hand.

“May Kotekru Kaylara keep a vigil over our friends.” Another up and over Ben’s passed out form.

“That sorry bastard still doesn’t have my name.” Justin said as they went down the steps.

“They will learn it from the San Bernardino County Sheriff soon enough.”

***

If Kirk smiled any harder he thought he might sprain something in his face. “That was fucking brilliant.”

“I admit that in the years since this event took place that I too derive a mild form of amusement from the tale.”

“Isn’t amusement an emotion?”

“As an affliction that is the direct result of two child abusers answering for their flagrant misdeeds, mild amusement, behind closed doors, is an acceptable response.” Spock’s expression didn’t offer so much as a flicker of what he claimed to have felt.

“Ugh, and you had me so afraid that they might have gotten away with it.” Eye contact, too strong, too long, and Jim lost his train of thought. Somewhere between elation at Ben and Shelby’s just desserts and the warm, dark brown of Spock’s irises, Kirk developed the pressing need, of which he dared not follow through, to take one of the Vulcan’s hands and promise a Christmas that was merry and bright.


	4. Chapter 4

The captain begged off not long after Spock related the Ben and Shelby story. That was something of a relief since he’d had to finagle Justin’s memory in such a way that he didn’t let certain information slip. The only name he used was Justin’s and he didn’t give a last name. Mention someone human as being called Ah’delevna-MacCormack, that only brought more questions and for someone like James Kirk, it was just enough of a tease for him to figure who Spock’s guardian angel was that cold winter night.

When Kirk found out Ah’delevna was a Vulcan name, a couple of calls had the potential to take him to Justin’s family and it was too easy to start making connections from there. He mustn’t know Spock’s father was Ambassador Sarek. From what the science officer gleaned in his time knowing Kirk, the captain would want to build a bridge between a father and son who’d not spoken in sixteen years.

Why the estrangement? The human would take it on as a mission to dissect a relationship that at its core was built atop a sinkhole. Nothing Kirk could do or say would change the stalwart diplomat’s opinion that his son, who’d had the chance to publicly prove himself a true Vulcan, had fled and enrolled in an inferior institution of higher learning and had taken on a career far below his station. To that end, Spock could say with certainty that the chances of he and Sarek sharing so much as a word not circuitously relayed through Lady Amanda, Justin, and T’Lal verged on nil.

If the captain wanted a happy time, unleashing Spock’s family drama on the world at large was a guaranteed source of stress and furor. It was regrettable that he’d mentioned to Kirk how Ben and Shelby got the smackdown they’d worked so hard to earn and the follow-up as visited upon them.

As part of his total avoidance of his father, Spock had a network of people who kept him more or less updated on the ambassador’s schedule. He and Sarek had not been forced into one another’s paths and he wanted it to remain that way. A quick calculation meant he knew what time it was in California and ShiKahr. Still early enough to place a call. . .

Mollie’s line went live for five-point-seven seconds. Nothing was said, words entirely unneeded, he got the message. He saw a shadowy female face. Zadie was not allowing Mollie to interact with him. _Dead air_.

Last night was the first time in weeks that he’d not had to contact Mollie at her day job as a math professor at USC. Intermittently, he’d also been forced to leave messages for her with the Los Angeles Chamber Orchestra on such matters as publishing schedules, peer reviews, submissions, and research for their shared work. Zadie’s hostility toward him was at a level where she was hamstringing Mollie’s career and they’d only been together for about six months. Concern for his friend was morphing into fear but he could not make her realize that which she did not want to.

Another call, this one to T’Lessa Ah’delvna’s home in ShiKahr, was answered by Tralnor’s older daughter, T’Yohna. She looked like her father, a MacCormack face with hints of the preternatural. After greeting Spock, she put him on hold to get her father rather than simply transferring the connection to a different line wherever he might be in the house.

“I was speaking to Grandmother T’Lessa today about how good it was to see you this summer. She thinks the USS Enterprise needs to come back to earth more often, not only to debrief and exchange command staff.” Just under two meters tall, broad-shouldered, still with his eerie green eyes and long hair hanging loose tonight, Tralnor hardly resembled the little elfin boy so put upon in that diner all those years ago. As his daughter took after him, he was a near carbon copy of Justin. “She wanted me to tell you that if you ever want to come back to Vulcan for anything that her door is open for you.”

They looked at one another, not speaking, but thinking the same thing. Spock wasn’t going back to Vulcan until he was forced to participate in a very specific ritual that he could not escape. A breath to level out, he forced thoughts of his still-impending marriage off the main stage in his mind. “As always, Clan Lyr Saan honors me with their largesse.”

“The offer is valid in perpetuity and probably most specifically for your plathau. We all want you to be safe.”

“I am grateful.” He didn’t believe he’d ever be in a position where he’d avail himself of T’Lessa’s hospitality. The woman to whom he was betrothed would obstinately refuse to associate with Tralnor’s family. So rather than spending their _first night_ , their plathau, together in a place where he was loved by others and held with regard, she would keep him in her world to face her burning scorn and her family’s contempt.

“Grandma Nora’s going to want to know if you got your invite. What say you so I can report back to her?”

He held it where Tralnor could clearly see. “I shall tuck it away with previous years’ announcements.”

“What’s going on? You’re not the type to call me just to shoot the shit. I’m getting close to heavy artillery as far as your assortment of friends goes.” Tralnor popped a knuckle on his right hand, one of those distinctly human traits he did without realizing. Justin did the same.

“I had wanted Mollie’s opinion on a matter.”

“ _But, Zadie_. . .” Tralnor had yet to find any affirmative traits for the LAPD detective who’d taken up with and tried to hide Mollie away from her family and friends. “Even Sarek has presented a logical case to her as to why Zadie is pernicious. She thinks she’s in love and people are blind to what they don’t want to see. We’re all guilty of it. Vulcans are more susceptible than humans, I believe because we’re indoctrinated to follow strict patterns of decorum as are the others in our society. Say what they will about the minuscule differences between clans, Vulcans have universal expectations they have to meet. Throw a human sociopath in the mix, we’re not necessarily programmed to recognize their deviant behavior, let alone give it a name. She’s not an empath like me and can’t get the kind of information I can from standing across the room from another person. You read people a hell of a lot better than she does mostly because you had to learn to rapidly interpret who you can trust to cover your ass in a firefight.”

Spock knew that was true. “She needs to meld deeply with someone to experience what you and I do not have to put much effort behind. She overgeneralizes human emotional and conduct cues.”

“Mollie understands human psychological and neurological conditions in an academic and medical sense, she’s not recognizing those pathological conditions in her own girlfriend.” Tralnor closed his eyes for a moment before adding, “She recognized that I was with Anya Willis for all the wrong reasons, begged me not to marry that woman. . . As you know, it was my desperation not to be alone should the Fever hit that drove me into that disaster. . . It’s also hard to take ourselves to task for the same things we issue dire warnings to others for.”

“Perhaps we should introduce Zadie to T’Pring. That would solve mine and Mollie’s problems in the realm of morally barren significant others.” Spock had so far escaped his species biological imperative of taking a spouse. He wanted more than almost anything in the universe to be spared the shame and anguish of the pon farr.

“If only casting away two obscene people like that should be so simple.”

He and Tralnor waited one another out, each man allowing the other ample space in which to collect his thoughts. “Tralnor, though I may be better at this than Mollie, I would still request your opinion on my captain’s recent kind gestures. Discerning emotional states and attitudes are helpful in professional settings, but my own internalized biases prevent me from trusting this man on a personal level.”

“I absolutely see how you’ve found yourself in this position.” Tralnor’s familiarity with Spock’s past granted him insight that another person, even another friend, might not have. “Sometimes the override we seek doesn’t come into fruition and we’re left with these scars that follow us into the present. I still can’t go out into the orchards at night. Rationally, I know it’s impossible for what happened when I was twelve to happen again. Only for you, the orchard is made of people instead of almond trees.”

“That is not a way I have thought of describing my issues.”

“Probably not totally accurate for your case, but close enough in this context. What kind of man is this new captain of yours?”

***

“Our little agent of chaos is still asleep.” Livia said to Justin and T’Lal as they let themselves into the house. “He’s on the blue sofa in the ground-floor office so I could keep him away from everyone for a while.”

Spock looked up from the place where he and Mollie were reading on the living room floor. Part of him expected to see that Justin had gotten clobbered by Ben, but initial appearances seemed fine.

“It was a bad day for Tralnor.” Mollie closed her book and rolled into a sitting position. “We were doing okay until Ilee grabbed his hand. . . I know she didn’t know what she was doing, but she really hurt him.”

“It’s one of the chances we take when we allow him out into public spaces.” Justin removed his coat and draped it over his arm.

“Hence this is only his second trip to earth.” T’Lal said. “It is also his last for the next three-and-a-half to four years.”

“He’ll stay with Grandmother T’Lessa, and Livia, and me when you’re gone off-world?” Mollie and her mother lived with T’Lal’s mother in ShiKahr. It was an arrangement that Spock liked because it guaranteed access to his friend.

“We’re happy to have him.” Livia offered. “I’ve been dealing with that damned Ilee Stevick since she moved here in the third grade. Until now, she’s just been one of those annoying obsessives that buzzes around like a mosquito in your ear. Every time I come home for a visit, there she is, just waiting to get her hooks into me. I could never have predicted this afternoon.”

“Ilee has always had problems.” Justin placed his empty arm around his wife in a very un-Vulcan show of affection. Spock liked to think of how his mother did the same to his father when they knew they were well away from the gossips and troublemakers.

“Who knew it was what Tralnor revealed? The last I heard, Ilee's father got killed in that mine collapse on Mars five years ago.” Livia leaned back into the wingback chair she sat in. "I hope she gets some help."

“Other than the obvious disturbance, how was the rest of your day?” T’Lal let her husband kiss the crown of her head.

“Ilee and Helen were rude to us when we were shopping.” Mollie slipped the marker into her book and closed it properly so she didn’t bend the spine by leaving it open, face down, on the floor. “Their words were no more unkind than what we hear at home. And here, we don’t have to be told that we’re worthless as anything other than slaves.”

“I have endured worse insults.” Spock said. “I am failing to fully comprehend this incident. Is it accepted that adults unrelated to children are allowed to make physical contact?”

“No, not at all. When it comes to other people’s kids, our rambling extended pack excluded from this example, the same cultural rules apply here as they do on Vulcan. Protection from immediate danger and arrant invitation only.” Without realizing it, Justin popped a knuckle on his right hand. “I’m disappointed that your shopping turned into a demonstration of exactly what not to do to a psion.”

“Uncle, how do we keep him safe? Just because he’s my annoying little brother doesn’t mean I think he should get hurt.” Mollie and a core group of MacCormack cousins were essentially raised as siblings. Subdivided further, Mollie and Tralnor; Marty, Jason, and John; Meggy and Art were their own sub-sets of siblings.

Essentially an only child, Spock was unfamiliar with sibling dynamics, save for what he saw demonstrated by these people. His so-called real Vulcan cousins refused to grant him access to their relationships with one another and the Grayson boys were a demonstration of why wolves were more civilized and familial than some human beings. Existing in the periphery, something like an anthropologist as a participant-observer, he felt rewarded by the Ah’delevna-MacCormack’s inclusion.

“The Ancient Golic scientists who constructed the first Lyr Saan made a scant collection of mistakes on a few of them. One flub leads to a selected trait for greatly enhanced empathic abilities instead of the earth-shattering telekinesis they were aiming for.” Livia, through her association with T’Lal’s family and her in-depth work on Spock’s conception, knew more about Vulcan’s pre-Surakian genetic engineering campaigns than almost anyone else alive. “It’s only been in the last month that we learned a mair-rigolauya isn’t a naturally occurring mutation and as such that’s why they only show up in Lyr Saan lineages.”

Spock wasn’t entirely sure why that declaration set him somewhat at ease, so he tried to find the reason. “Is it because the Ancient Gols used human DNA to help create the Lyr Saan?”

“Kan t’nash-vey, no matter what your detractors claim, it was an impossibility for you to have manifested such a degree of hyper-empathy that it outstrips the human genome’s ability to support it.” Livia said. “Yes, you have some empathic abilities, better than most Vulcans, but you can’t blame your mother for that. You’re not a Lyr Saan descendant, therefore you lack the history of genetic tampering Tralnor has. What you saw today, is something that can’t happen to you, even as an empathically sensitive touch telepath.”

“Without genetic tampering, I could not exist.” And of the girl beside him, Spock said, “Mollie would not be here either.”

“Let me rephrase: without a history of _malicious_ genetic tampering. When we created you, we did everything within our power to deliver a beautiful, kind little boy into the world. You were brought about by love, by people who thought you deserved to be here as a vessel for a generous soul.” Livia extended her arm so she might brush her fingers along his cheek, those barely-there grazes to his psi points acting as conduits of praise and concern. “We wanted and believed in you, in Mollie, that it was worth it for Amanda, for me, for Justin and Theresa, to give up part of who we used to be.”

Spock was trying to match Liva’s claims to his observations and Mollie attempted to unpack what her mother meant about giving up something. Scooting some centimeters closer together, the pair of six-year-olds had trouble making sense of what they were hearing.

Justin said, “For the two of you to happen, we had to circumvent the Eugenics Laws. Earth, her colonies, and even breakaway systems like the ToVan Republic ratified the Terran Assembly Declaration on the Corruption, Modification, and Diabolism of Humanoid Pre-natal Subjects. Codified after the Eugenics Wars and before the formation of the Federation, this declaration-turned-law is over a century and a half old and expressly forbids any of the citizens of the ratifiers and subsequent adapters and adopters of the law from engaging in the genetics research and experimentation that results in viable pregnancies and positive post-natal outcomes.”

“That sounded like you might-possibly-could be or may have been a lawyer.” Theresa stepped into the living room and set an armload of tiny wrapped gifts beneath the tree.

“ _Shhhhh_.” Justin gave his mock warning. “ _People think I’m actually a nice guy_.”

“He’s attempting to tell you that me, your mum, Livia, and himself, the only way we could legally create you was if we weren’t human anymore.” Theresa adjusted her clothes as she stood.

Ears ringing, Spock wanted to process what he heard but his brain seized. “If my mother is not human, then what is she?”

“We burned our passports right in front of the embassy in central ShiKahr after earth officials refused to take them when we tried to turn them in.” Theresa indulged in a pleased smirk. “We renounced our earth citizenship and legally, the four of us have been Vulcan ever since.”

He let his hand wander until he connected with Mollie. “You wasted too much—”

“Ki-ghul’es pa’du’don, Spock.” T’Lal told him to have confidence in his worth.

“It is hard to have value for oneself when shown the sacrifice others made for a child who was only wanted by one of his parents.”

***

Tralnor had listened to everything Spock could come up with about James Tiberius Kirk. “So, he’s the affable All-American Boy, almost down to the color of his eyes. He’s good to his friends, fair to those he commands, gets a little overzealous when chasing Klingons and gorging on apple pie, the ladies line up outside just to get down. . .”

“He has only ever been open and amiable to me. Cultural insensitivities are not born out of malice and those he’s displayed due to ignorance, it is his custom to educate himself and remediate the misunderstanding.” Spock probably could have come up with a genuine complaint or two, nitpicks, but had trouble giving any evidence that Kirk was dishonorable. “Forgive me for saying this, but it is the truth. Captain Kirk is remarkably the same kind of man as Jock Balloch was.”

A single nod and Tralnor said, “No need to ask forgiveness. That’s quite the compliment for any man to receive.”

“Tushah al’e nash-veh k’odu.” _I continue to grieve with thee_. “Etek dor-tor sa’vokaya.”

As he said, _We honor his memory_ , Spock was intrigued by the idea that he may have happened upon someone in Kirk, who reflected the integrity of one of the noblest people the science officer had ever known. Though, it bruised his soul that this breakthrough came at the expense of revisiting old wounds. Tralnor had lost his wife, Amelie Grace, and their lover, Jock, to a murder plot carried out by human supremacists.

“Etek dor-tor au’vokayalar abi etek ragel-tor svi'thurai ha'kiv.” Tralnor amended. _We honor their memories until we meet in the next life_. “A good ally, a steady companion, a voice of encouragement you don’t have to seek through comm lines and hope the call doesn’t fritter away into a goopy subspace distortion, I think it favors you to make James Kirk your friend.”

***

Head hung and shoulders slumped, Spock realized a second meaning to what he’d said. “Mollie, I am sorry.”

“It’s okay.” How she wasn’t offended by the thoughtless unloading of his personal drama, he’d never know.

A driving need for acceptance/love/comfort screamed out from every molecule of his being. He let Mollie embrace him, physically and mentally reminding him that there were people who wanted him. “I did not want it to sound like you were—Because if I was not created you would not exist.”

(I know how badly words can hurt, Mollie. I should not have said that.) He felt disgusted at his own thoughtlessness. (I might as well have said I want you dead.)

(You meant no harm.) Her words effortlessly salved the shame he brought upon himself. (I know you love me.)

He pulled his friend in a fraction tighter, hoping this proximity to a person who didn’t have the burden of being unwanted by immediate and extended family, would grant him the presence of mind to appreciate what he did have.

“Spock.”

“Yes, Ma’am?” He adjusted so his right ear lay against Mollie’s shoulder and he could see T’Lal.

“Your father is a hard man for reasons we cannot disclose, none of which are because of you. Your parents and their medical team were in the wake of your mother’s sixth miscarriage when the doctors and scientists at the Science Academy’s Assisted Reproduction Program, again insisted that they had done everything correctly, and told Amanda that she was at fault for these failures. That was when Sarek decided to consult two healers from outside the ARP fold.” T’Lal motioned, indicating the duo she was talking about.

“We were toward the middle of our residencies and we’d seen the hell your parents went through for years as they tried to have a family.” Livia picked up the story. “The ARP team only saw one deficiency and that was Sarek’s human wife. What they didn’t do was troubleshoot more than the procedure they followed. They thought that going down that checklist and hitting the vital points was a guarantee of success on their end. What we did, before torching passports and all the dramatic stuff, we spent almost a year and a half undertaking a massive quality control campaign that singled out problems.”

“That is when you made your contribution to the project?” Spock had always known the basics of how he came to be and why he was inexorably linked to Mollie.

“It’s a little more complicated than that but essentially true.” She didn’t need to explain how her donor eggs, hollowed and refilled with his parents’ genetic material, plus three of Livia’s genes selected to replace Amanda’s, was what it took to concoct a viable hybrid. Likewise, Mollie came about from the nuclei of Livia’s eggs, broken down and recombined to make up for the three genes that went to Spock. That culmination of Livia’s DNA was injected into Amanda’s emptied ova.

“If you hadn’t been wanted by both your mum and your dad, we would not have joined the effort to see you born.” Theresa said. “I wish Sarek was capable of this kind of communication with you that we’re having right now. Open, questions allowed, comments encouraged, so that you might hear what he went through to turn you from a wish into a real boy.”

“Sarek’s inability to share these things, again, has nothing to do with you.” T’Lal’s stalwart certainty that Spock was desired fit with what she said next. “He is not deliberately unkind.”

“Let’s just say your dad doesn’t want his work sabotaging his home life.” Justin, why he was such a staunch supporter of Sarek, Spock could not begin to know, went on. “And when you do what he does for a living, about the only way that you, Spock, aren’t going to get taken out in the crossfire brought on by his job is if he puts you at a safe distance.”

“I believe I understand, Sir.” Spock would have to think about the points Justin brought up.

“Remember, you don’t have to like what he’s had to do, you don’t have to agree with the importance he places on the Diplomatic Corps, you don’t have to like him in general. You do however need to show respect to a man who went above and beyond anyone’s expectations to put together the team who would deliver you into the world.” Justin made some sense. Truly, if Spock had not been wanted, he wouldn’t be in a living room in California embraced by his friend.

***

The CMO stepped out of Jim’s way and let him into his quarters. The captain felt considerably lighter than he had at dinner. “Bones, I think I’ve made some headway.”

“Really, now?” He cocked an eye at his friend. “Don’t suppose you got him talked into coming to that party, did you?”

“No, and I won’t win on that one, but at least now I understand why.” Kirk was riding his own ass about being such an ass about the whole situation.

“When are you going to start processing that transfer request?”

Corner of his mouth raised, he said, “I’m not.”

Head drawn back, blue eyes questioning, McCoy looked like he wanted to ask if Jim had lost his damned mind. Instead, he said, “You’re sure about that?”

“I think, if we put in the effort, that we can work together. I need to have a little more deference for people who didn’t grow up leaving out cookies and milk for Santa.” That was the first thing. “I also need to not evaluate someone’s job performance based on things that happen off the clock. If all I ever get out of the guy is, ‘ _My personal time was adequate, Captain_ ,’ then that’s all I’m going to get. He’s too good at what he does to piss away an officer of that calibre.”

“Though, it might not hurt to start researching someone you could bring in as a replacement if things catch fire and go to hell right quick-like. Whiskey?”

“Please.” He’d told Spock he was going to bed, pushing off the second part of the Ben and Shelby retaliation for another time, but he left the Vulcan’s quarters too jazzed up to sleep. “And at least a couple of someones back home gives a damn about him.”

“How’d you learn about that?” Cork popped, the warm and peaty scent of scotch laced the air. “Water?”

“If the good doctor would be so kind.” Jim had the feeling that the Chief Medic and Chief Engineer had engaged in some sort of bet that Mr. Scott had lost, given that this particular bottle of grog was in McCoy’s liquor cabinet.

“So what, he’s got a wife we don’t know about? That would be in addition to the guy who rescued Spock from that shed.” Drink mixed and served, McCoy moved on to making one for himself.

“I strongly doubt there’s a Mrs. Pointy-Eared Hobgoblin out there, Bones. He doesn’t strike me as the marrying type. He’s got a mistress and that’s his job, no room in life for anything else.”

“Excellent point.”

“I also get the feeling that he’s not terribly popular with the ladies in the first place. He’s just got one of those don’t waste my time vibes that turns women off.” Kirk didn’t have to guess, he knew there wasn’t a significant other hiding in the wings. “And he’s not exactly swayed by the visuals around these parts. The gals on this ship could be naked or dressed in potato sacks and he’d pay the same amount of attention.”

“Speak for yourself.” Bones took a sip of his drink and smiled at the glass, probably thanking Scotty for whatever flub sent the bottle of perfection his way. “I’ve got a charge nurse who won’t stop talking about the man. Tall, dark, handsome, mysterious, listening to her is like getting the greatest hits from a romance novel. The way she goes on, she’d suck his cock in the middle of traffic if she thought she’d get away with it.”

“That’s probably more than I wanted to know.”

“Yeah, well, Christine isn’t exactly a wallflower when it comes to letting her feelings be known. She’s been going on the last two weeks about how she’s going to seduce the pants off him and give him his first fuck.” An eye-roll so hard that the doctor looked like he might sprain something, he said, “So, the resident Vulcan does have his admirers.”

“She sounds frightening.” Kirk’s encounters with Nurse Chapel had remained strictly professional, but he got a very distinct sense of unease around her like she was constantly searching the one thing that could plug up the gaping crater in her soul.

“Who’s this other entity that’s on Team Spock?”

“I didn't get the details, but he’s got some friends back in California that make sure he’s included in their Christmas, even if it's their party invite that he’ll be forced to decline. It was obvious from the way he talked about whoever those people are that their care for him is strong.” Another mouthful of earthy perfection and Kirk said, “Of course, he didn’t get into specifics, but I’m taking what I can get at this time.”

“All very interesting. There’s one thing you haven’t told me yet that I’ve been burning to know the answer to.” The doctor tried to keep a serious face but couldn’t do it.

“Huh?”

“Any idea what I’m getting this bastard for Christmas?”

***

Justin and T’Lal wished everyone a good night before heading to the office to get Tralnor and deliver him up to bed. The boy was still out cold as his parents hauled him away. Spock didn’t imagine they’d see him downstairs much before ten in the morning.

Spock liked the younger boy and it was difficult to see him hurt like this. It was hard to fathom how hard of a jolt Tralnor took to his system. “Livia, how did the Lyr Saan keep people like Tralnor safe before Vulcans became peaceful?”

Livia moved over to a sofa and patted the cushion beside her. Spock and Mollie joined her. He was relieved to again establish physical contact with his friend. She often had a calming effect on him.

“I have never seen such pain in a living being.” Spock wanted to comprehend so that he may help look out for his young friend and prevent a repeat of that afternoon. “Yet, Justin calls it an acceptable risk.”

“In the pre-Reform days, little ones like him were kept hidden for the first seven years of their lives.” Livia leaned over and pulled her children close. “It was too easy for warlords and other criminals to exploit those of Tralnor’s persuasion.”

“If they caught one as a child, they could mold that individual into a living, breathing weapon of mass destruction.” Theresa took over the empty wingback. “Whereas an adult mair-rigolauya was put to use as an instrument of avoiding mortality.”

“Did any survive that fate?” Spock was getting answers to questions he’d long been afraid to ask. Mostly, he’d not wanted to upset Clan Lyr Saan sensibilities as an interloper descended of the Ancient Gols.

Livia pursed her lips, considered her words, then said, “For the almost statistically insignificant number of survivors, they probably wished they had died from the ordeal.”

“A critically wounded person, mostly the aforementioned warlords and their generals, forced a meld onto the hyper-empath.” Theresa was less concerned about what she said as the meaning they conveyed. “As you’ve seen with Tralnor, it does not take a terribly strong or deep link for the transfer of corporeal injury and that is less-so when dealing with afflictions of the mind. Older, trained individuals, the adults, had some of the strongest psionic defenses ever recorded in Vulcans of any lineage.”

“The trick was in breaking a mair-rigolauya down to get through their shielding. The easiest way was to use a specially formulated drug.” Livia finished. “A lot of Lyr Saan died that way.”

Spock closed his eyes with the warm sensation Livia sent through her touch. His mind lapped up this nebulous attention revering the sense of grounding him in a place where he didn’t feel completely hollow inside. He said, “It does not seem right that Tralnor was born with this and that what happened today is a preferable outcome than in thousands of years of history.”

“That’s why we have to protect him as much as we can. It’s harder to be vulnerable if you’re with other people.” Mollie snuggled against her mother. “Right, Spock?”

He answered in the affirmative knowing that assertation applied to himself as well. Life was less arduous when you had friends.

***

Spock made a concerted effort to stay in the officer’s mess for the morning meal. The captain smiled, his boyish charm flooding off him, an expression that said, _Welcome, please sit with me_ , played across his face. Unfortunately, the science officer did not greet Kirk and take up the chair next to him. This was too good an opportunity to consult his bioarchaeologist.

“You have disappointed him.” Sha’leyen said.

“That was not my intention. We will be spending all of alpha shift together on the bridge should the Enterprise not encounter any unforeseen pitfalls.” It was always hard for Spock to know which humans would react badly to a slight social rejection. He had not deliberately set out to upset the captain, he’d wanted to get some business taken care of, thus not having to leave his post later in the day.

“He is a sensitive man in some ways. While I find his leadership style invigorating, I am not going to try to give you a lie that he does not frustrate the living daylights out of me at times. One of his contrary behaviors is the misplaced belief that he will unlock the answers to all of life’s questions because he is bold enough to take his queries straight to the top. If he does not get a satisfactory response, he then proceeds to pester. . . I do have to wonder how his inability to leave anything alone, such as not accepting that you do not want to attend his party, is going to wear on the crew.”

“Kirk and I have spoken privately the previous two nights and last night he informed me that he was not going to force my attendance at his gathering.” Spock was in a state of abject relief.

“That is a positive omen.” She said.

“He also said that he would like to become my friend and that is not contingent on my appearing at his party.”

“I like that development. When he’d sought me out and dug in his heels about not wanting to follow your wishes, I had a moment of insight where I wondered who was going to leave the Enterprise first, you or Kirk.” She tipped back the last of her coffee.

"I do have one question for you.” He tried to catch a glimpse of Kirk, but the captain had bussed his tray and left.

“I cannot promise an answer, but I will listen.”

“Regardless of my presence at this event, Dr. McCoy is still going to insist on getting me a gift. I do not want or need anything and I have not previously been in a situation where someone has been so driven to see to it that I get an item. How would you approach this dilemma?” This was a new crag he’d gotten caught in. Previous crews had taken him at his word about not wanting to have anything to do with their holiday. Academy classmates would just as soon as spit on him than bring him a present. When he gathered with the Ah’delevna-MacCormacks, he was comfortable around them and knew they thought out what they got for people.

“I am not as polite as you are, Sir. I’d be looking at a formal reprimand. Therefore, I play along with these people for as much as it takes to keep hostilities from escalating.” She gathered her cup and silverware, setting them on her tray. “Take the gift. Tell the doctor that you appreciate the time and thought that went into it. You won’t be expected to smile and fake your way through a mountain of false praise for McCoy. Whatever it is, hide it in the back of your closet for at least the next eighteen months. If it’s something that’s not too big, keep it there for the rest of the mission. Then you can think about getting rid of it.”

The first phrase that popped into Spock’s head was, _That’s stupid_. “What does it accomplish for me to keep an unwanted gift secreted away for the next four years and eight months?”

“You would think this is something I picked up when I was a graduate student at University College London. Rather, I learned this method of graciously accepting worthless rubbish from my Guv’nor on my first case as a detective. CID was roped into something similar to what Kirk has going on. I survived the gathering, was the recipient of a wide assortment of overly vinegary ‘hot’ sauces, and was on my way to pitch the whole thing in the bin when DCI Taylor asked to see my present. It was then that he had me step into the closest empty office where he explained the following.”

Spock was not the kind of man who kept pointless do-dads and dust collectors around. He abhorred clutter. An overwhelmed living space was a direct cause of an overwhelmed mind space.

“He started by saying, ‘ _Since you’re not from around here_. . .’ He was always very fair and understanding of off-worlders like me. What he explained, and it’s something I have repeatedly observed since then, is that humans are inexplicably possessive of the things they give away. Their emotional attachment to inanimate objects makes little sense to me and I am an anthropologist.

“They want to see that a list of conditions is met by the giftee. Is their gift enjoyable, pretty, useful, something you want more of, was it appreciated? Irreverence toward the object received, especially in front of PC Williams, was viewed as a personal insult, a true affront, because that person put forth the effort to deliver that utterly useless thing to me and only me. Some humans go so far as to check in with you and see how your and their gift are coexisting days, weeks, years afterward.” A slightly raised brow and a shake of her head told Spock that she thought the unofficial rules of the gift-giving ritual were a sign of a psychiatric condition.

“Dr. McCoy is precisely the type of person who would consult me to make sure his gift was seeing proper treatment.” Spock, like the rest of his people, was taught that once a gift was given, it was for the recipient to do with as he pleased.

“Therefore, when DCI Taylor and I rejoined the others, I followed his instructions that I put my new assortment of taste bud-murdering sauces into my bag to take them home. PC Williams’ feelings were not hurt and I still got to dispose of the nasty condiments, just not as expediently as I had wanted.” Sha’leyen stood and picked up her tray. “Perhaps if you cram McCoy’s gift far enough into your closet you won’t have any reminder at all that it’s there until we leave this beautiful boat.”

“Thank you for your advice.”

“Any time, Sir.” She walked off toward the drop off so she could deposit her dirty service items and be on her way.

It wasn’t enough that he’d gotten out of the party. Spock thought, _Do what you must to keep the peace_.

***

Tralnor was groggy the next day and was kept home from a planned excursion in San Francisco. Having had enough of humanity at large for possibly the rest of his life, Spock decided to stay back at the Big House as well. He’d just assume not visit the city anyway. Right on the ocean, it was cold and damp, two conditions he did his best to avoid.

After the house emptied out and a blanket of quiet settled in, Spock decided that he wanted to spend some more time in the living room. He turned on the tree lights after Grandma Nora had shown him how that morning. A visitation to his ornament was followed by an inspection of his stocking. His, like all the decorative socks on the wall, had little offerings stashed in it. Curiosity left him wondering what was inside and not wanting to wait until the scheduled unveiling on Christmas morning.

Beneath the tree, the explosion of boxes and gift bags was a sight to behold. Still, the strangest feature was that there were gifts with his name on them. The big, heavy present Justin had warned him not to shake was a book of some type. He looked forward to learning the title.

Nearly transfixed by the lights and otherworldly atmosphere of the room, he was in for a bit of a start when the strains of a guitar solo sounded from the floor above. Lights off, he ventured upstairs to investigate. There, in the music room, Justin sat and plucked out a tune on the strings. Tralnor was fast asleep on one of the old sofas situated on the other side of the grand piano.

“No San Francisco for you today?”

“No, Sir.” Spock sat down and watched the human’s fingers travel up and down the neck of the instrument.

“I don’t blame you for not wanting to go. Mollie and Livia are going to get waylaid at the embassy and that’s going to make the day hours longer than anyone wanted. Any idea what you’d like for lunch?”

“I do not know.” As a child, his place was such that he was not consulted on decisions of this nature. It was also expected that he not complain. That ingrained understanding of how such things worked in a household had gone out the window when he was down in Big Bear. However, malnourishment had an effect of making him somewhat belligerent.

“There is only one thing that I won’t let you pick.”

A couple heavy blinks and Spock replied, “What is that?”

“Cookies.”

Why would someone want cookies as a meal? “ _Cookies_?”

“When we’re done with our food, you and I are going to make up the cookie dough for fifteen dozen peanut butter cookies.”

Agog at the number, Spock could not fathom anything where that amount of goodies was needed. “One-thousand-three-hundred-and-eighty peanut butter cookies?”

“The dough will sit in the fridge overnight so we can bake them off for the community dinner on Thursday.” Justin played a few more notes before stopping. “Livia, Theresa, and Grandma Nora did the sugar cookie dough last night after you kids went to bed.”

What would that many cookies even look like?

“I’ll let you have some time to think of what you might like for lunch. In the meantime what did you want to do?” Justin looked over at his son. “Still out. Looks like it's just you and me.”

Do some more reading? Work on some mental math exercises? Stay here and continue to listen to Justin play? Spock didn’t know. He watched Justin unsling the guitar from around his back and neck, where it was carefully settled into a portable floor stand. The human got up and opened some doors on the row of wardrobe cabinets that took up half the south wall.

“Let’s see. . .” Door shut, another open, the man sorted through any number of instruments, stands, and accessories. “Is that—Nope, wrong one.”

Tralnor coughed in his sleep and made some wordless noise.

“Here we are.” Justin had a long black case by a handle. “You want to learn how to play?”

Unsure of what exactly was going on, Spock watched Justin open the case and remove a smaller guitar, one that a child could use. Did he want to learn how to play? “I would be honored for you to teach me, Sir.”

“Very good. Let me get this sucker tuned and we’ll be on our merry way.”

***

After setting a diagnostic algorithm to run a functionality scan on the computer core, Spock was done with any busy work he could come up with. Right now, he and the rest of the bridge crew were at the mercy of whatever the vacuum of space threw up in their path. All of his projections gave him an estimate of a ninety- six-point-seven percent chance that nothing would take this ship or her crew off their lazy trajectory that day or for the following three for that matter.

While some did light housekeeping, wiping up spills and crumbs, or testing equipment, Spock examined his hands. He had long fingers that would have been too thin on a human. They suited him and the practical work he did. When dissecting computer hardware, he was in demand because he had the size and dexterity to get his fingers into tight spaces and manipulate circuits, chips, and heat sinks.

“Mr. Spock?” The captain pulled the science officer out of contemplations.

“Sir?” He didn’t have the calluses like he once had. The result of years worth of playing stringed instruments, the lack of those tell-tale bumps and ridges of skin told him that he needed to practice more often.

“Bones is making me want to jump off a cliff with this present thing. Please, take pity on me so I can settle him down. What should he get you?” Kirk was up and stretching his legs. “And don’t say ‘nothing,’ Mister. _He’s insufferable_.”

 _I do not want or need anything_ , Spock thought before remembering his breakfast talk with Sha’leyen. _Correction, I want and need for Dr. McCoy to not go off on some emotional jag about how he’s been offended by a ‘pointy-eared wet blanket.’ If I were not such an inadequate liar I would make something up_. “Inform the doctor that. . .”

Kirk’s body language cried out in relief. “Yes?”

“I have a penchant for reading about the processes of automation that took place during the earth’s industrial revolution through the end of the twentieth century.”

“Um, okay.”

“Should he ask why, and he will, inform him that my study of that topic offers valuable insight into the human creative process and why they chose to do some of the things they did without any regard for reason.”

The captain gawped and collected himself. “Sure, Spock. I’ll be sure to let him know.”


	5. Chapter 5

After a delightfully uneventful shift on the bridge, Spock retreated to lands unknown. Even as he and Jim got off on the same deck as their living quarters, Kirk got the feeling that his hopefully-soon-to-be-friend wasn’t doing something so simple as kicking his feet up on his desk and chowing down on the snacks his mom and buddies had sent.

He watched as that tall, lean form moved past the captain’s door and disappeared around the turn of the corridor. Part of his brain was intrigued by the way the Vulcan moved, making human locomotion seem blocky and awkward in comparison. Jim almost wondered if his science officer had some sort of formal dance instruction, a question he had to admit was asinine, since he didn’t think Vulcans danced, too many emotions involved.

“I give it about a four-point-five.”

“ _Jesus Christ, Bones_.” Kirk hadn’t heard or sensed the doctor’s approach.

“Keep your skin on, man.” McCoy got Jim turned around. “You said in your message that you got the skinny on this gift-giving thing. Let’s get out of the hall and someplace where we can talk.”

Door open, the two men stepped inside and made themselves comfortable. The captain stayed looking in the general direction he’d seen Spock recede. When a hand waved in front of his face, he pulled together and faced his friend.

“I was starting to wonder if you were having a petit mal seizure.”

“A what?”

“It’s a kind of brain fart that leaves you looking for your sunglasses when they’re right on your nose.” A brow waggled added emphasis to the amusement on his face. “That’s not really a proper example, but it gets the point across.”

Trying to shed the distraction, Jim got himself a glass of water, using the activity to recenter his attention. “What was this thing with the numbers when you startled me?”

“I said that I give it about a four-point-five.”

“Do I want to know what you mean by that?” He leveled suspicion at McCoy.

“I saw what you were staring at was all.”

Maybe it was the doctor who’d mentally checked out? What the hell was he trying to say? “Alright, I’m stumped. What are you evaluating and what scale are you doing it on?”

“One-to-ten.” That fact arrived quickly.

“I’m not in the mood for twenty questions tonight. If this was a Monopoly board, not only have I failed to make the last corner, I’ve fallen off straight into the middle of the game and am doggy-paddling for the jail.”

“Ten being the highest score.” Whatever it was, Bones didn’t want to state it out loud. "And who the hell still plays Monopoly?"

“Do I have to find a telepath to come and drag this out of you?”

“For the sake of all fucks, Jim.” A smile accompanied a trickle of laughter. “Spock’s ass, far too gristly for my liking, but knowing the way your tastes run, I see why you like the view.”

“That’s not funny.” _When have I ever looked. . . this morning at breakfast, that time last week at the gym_. . . When he thought about it, yeah, he was guilty as sin. “Just because I’m the captain doesn’t mean I don’t have a pulse. _I look at everything_. I can’t help it.”

“Don’t let it distract from your job and we’ll all be fine.”

Kirk felt the recoil scrunch up his face. “I’m _so_ not into the guy that way. I like my boys the same way I like my girls, equipped with a little cushion for the pushin’ if you know what I mean.”

“Well, Nurse Chapel will be pleased to know she doesn’t have any competition.” McCoy couldn’t keep it together any longer. Mild guffaws morphed into belly laughs. “Otherwise, I’d say sleep with a kitchen knife under your pillow because she’s a-comin’ to get you for interfering with _her_ man. Lord help you.”

“She’s a scary one. If I’m waking up to her face, it better be because she’s trying to cut my throat and not the follow-up to a night of regretful sex.” Insanity winding down, Kirk said, “I hope you’re ready for one of the best attempts of anyone to throw you off their scent.”

“I can always deal with hearing tales of my greatness. He can’t shake me and he knows it.” McCoy awaited the gift-guidelines, pre-amusement working through his body language.

“The easy part is that it’s a book.”

  
  
  
0150 was an ideal time to wander the Enterprise and clean the litter of one’s day from their mind. Spock, not for the first time, couldn’t sleep. He’d spent his downtime attempting to word a letter to his mother, but anything he tried to tell her would only make her worry for her only child. No matter the number of times he’d told her that his chosen profession was dangerous, she dwelled on the idea that he’d be better off at a static ground assignment far away from the topics he wanted to study. She constantly questioned why he put himself in danger when he could still do scientific research from Starfleet Headquarters.

No matter what, she’d want to hear from him for the holiday. He’d honor her request, Amanda thinking he was simply indulging her human frivolities. He didn’t think he could convince her that a call or letter from him on Christmas was something he did because he wanted to do it. It was made all the better because it gave her such happiness.

After wandering for three-quarters of an hour, Spock found himself in a familiar place. Perpetually drawn here by an unseen force, he allowed for some permeability of his psionic shields. After years of repeating this routine, he knew he should give up and stop seeking what he did not have the capability to find. A palm against the bulkhead, he knew where the entryway to the old hematology lab used to be. If one looked close enough they’d find the seams in the metal sheeting and that one section was incongruous with the others surrounding it.

Knowing it was wishful thinking, there had been a few times where he thought he’d actually found what he sought. Sending what he could of his psi abilities into the wall, it felt like he was chasing a shadow that didn’t operate within the rules of what reality said was possible. Nothing.

He decided not to take his hand away, rather he went to tracing the barely visible scratches and gouges on the wall. They always disappeared in the same way, with the new metal panel breaking the narrative of what this particular spot was trying to say. The damage, caused by high-velocity shrapnel, didn’t tell the true story of what happened here.

Subtle changes in texture, that was all that was left, except the vague nagging feeling he got every time he passed this location. (I do not know if you are actually here and trapped because I cannot find you. I do not know if this whisper of you is more than a psychic imprint. What I do know is that I am not the kind of psion who can figure this out.)

Again, he got nothing. (If Tralnor was here, he’d get this sorted, but then I would not want to put him in a place where he needed to relive your death so that I might satisfy my curiosity.)

Had he been using his physical voice, the two crewmen who passed through this area to do some repair work would have been treated to the sight and sound of the hopelessly weird science officer talking to himself. (The new captain, he has decided that he wants to become my friend.)

While he understood on a practical and neuropsionic level why he didn’t get a comment on this. He said, (You would like him. He is bright and gregarious, the kind of man who seldom encounters a stranger. What I think you would enjoy the most about him is his dedication to the spirit of our mission. How unfortunate that the two of you will never meet.)

He dropped his hand and got another good look at the site where his friend, Ensign Paulette Gordon, had died. The victim of a hull-piercing torpedo packed with broken glass, nails, and ball bearings, she’d bled out right here, a vicious shard lodged in her neck. In the wake of her absence, he’d not wanted to indulge in the misplaced attempts of others who’d claimed they wanted his friendship. It was not anyone else’s fault that he was distrustful of others when they presented outside of a professional capacity.

“Goodnight my friend.” He whispered to the nearest thing Paulette had for a grave.

***

Making the cookie dough seemed straightforward. Justin had asked Spock that he review the recipe while Big Momma, the Big House’s industrial mixer was wheeled in from the old detached garage. He calculated the amounts of ingredients it would take to prepare the number of cookies Justin said they were making. He wasn’t sure about the units of measurement presented in the ancient book, but multiplying them by the dozens needed, Spock came up with the numbers

Follow the steps and everything should turn out—He was sent back to last night. Blatant checklist following had kept his parents from having a child when they’d first wanted one. There was something vital to this recipe that wasn’t set on the page. Not knowing anything about baking, he couldn’t tell what it was.

“I’ve got the machine at the bottom of the kitchen porch ramp. What I need you to do is come out here and hold the screen door open for me.” Justin bounced in and out just long enough to place his request.

Once outside, Spock was unsure of what he was even looking at. Justin gave it a couple of meters lead in to build the momentum to get the hulking metal thing started up the ramp. The casters didn’t all want to move the same direction at the same time, leaving MacCormack to manhandle the thing around the turn midway through the ascent.

“Big Momma has been in the family since the 1970s. I don’t know as I could begin to guess how many millions of cookies and dinner rolls this old girl has made for the Community Christmas Dinner over the years.” One last hard shove to get the thing over the threshold and Spock followed back into the kitchen.

Once the massive appliance was situated, wheels braked, Justin took a plaque off the wall above the dishwasher. “Some smart ancestor of mine added an extra 220-volt outlet in here. We don’t have a lot of the old copper wiring left in this house, but for what’s needed to operate some of our heirloom toys.”

A heavy cable with prongs on one end seated into the outlet and Justin emptied the bowl of various metal implements before pushing a black button labeled Start. “Okay, we’re good here.”

The machine sounded powerful. Spock knew there was not a single computerized component anywhere in Big Momma and appreciated the grunt the thing put out. Stop button depressed, he cautiously came up on the mixer. Someone called Hobart was the manufacturer which was located in someplace called Ohio.

“When this thing is running don’t touch it. Don’t get any closer than the end of this counter.” Justin pointed out a demarkation. “Get careless around Big Momma and she can take your arm off.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Giant hook-thing attached to the rotating center, Justin turned it on again, listened for a moment, and powered it down. “Alignment is still good. What did you think of the recipe?”

“It took some reflection, but I believe an element is missing.”

“What brought about that conclusion?” Justin reached into a broom cupboard for an apron, getting one out for Spock as well.

“I learned last night that complacency in following procedure can prevent someone from questioning why a set of instructions does not turn out a perfect final product every time.” He followed the human’s lead, draping the neck strap behind his head and wrapping the ties all the way around his back and to the front again so he could see what he was doing when making his knot.

“Very much on point.” In the pantry and out again, Justin pulled a cart ladened with cookie ingredients into the kitchen proper. “So, you can tell me that something is missing, the next question is this: what is it?”

“I do not know.”

“Do you know why you don’t know?”

“My line of thinking leads me to believe that either there is a step missing from the mixing directions or an ingredient has been left out.” Spock went to where he could take another look at the recipe. “Given that I have no knowledge of cookie baking, I am coming to the most sensible conclusions based on the information I do have.”

“Okay then, that’s a workable explanation.” Justin opened a pair of boxes claiming to contain sweet cream unsalted butter. “How much of this do I need?”

“Twenty-eight-point-seven-four-nine pounds—Sir, what is a pound?”

“The number you gave, divide it by two-point-two.”

“Thirteen-point-zero-six-seven.”

“A little over thirteen kilos of butter.” He lifted plastic bags from the cardboard cartons. “A pound is an old earth unit of measurement. It's part of the wildly inconsistent Imperial System. When you work with recipes like these that are hundreds of years old, some conversions need to be made.”

“Is something lost in this conversion?” He watched as one bag was cut open and hefted into the bowl.

“Nope.” Now a serving platter and a produce scale came out to get a weight on the second block of butter. Using something he called a cheese wire, Justin cut back the fat until he got the amount he needed. “Now that we’ve got all of our fixings, are you ready for a chemistry lesson?”

  
  
  
Emulsifiers, protein structures, heat and baking times promoting gas expansion, weak bases as leavening, melting points of fats, salt as a temper for the baking soda to keep the air bubbles from getting too big, those same bubbles staying in place because the structure from the gluten keeps the cookies from going flat as they cook, the caramelization process that turns heated sugar brown adding to the toasty appearance of a properly done cookie, what properly creamed butter and sugar look like, why this particular dough needed refrigeration before baking. . . Spock filed away these facts for later consultation.

When the mixing was done, Justin unplugged Big Momma, removed the dough hook and took a pizza paddle to help move the raw sweet treats from the bowl. Plopped onto a sheet of plastic draped over the breakfast table, it soon looked like a heap of wet sand was growing toward the hanging light fixture.

“Now that we’re ready to parcel this out into one-kilogram batches, reread the recipe.”

Spock nodded and went back to the book. Justin was in the process of running a sink of hot water to scrub up the things that were too large for the dishwasher. Both of them heard as a ground car pulled up to the front door, a sign that the driver was not Grandma Nora, T’Lal, or Theresa. It was hard to see the happenings from the kitchen windows being that it was dark outside and interior light reflected off the glass rendering them opaque until you got up very close.

Flour-sack dishtowel draped over his shoulder, Justin pushed back from the sink. “Stanislaus County Sheriff.”

“What is their—”

“They’re escorting a mucky-muck SFPD uniform and that prima-donna little weasel, Sajak.” 

Spock set the book back on the counter. “That is not a good sign.”

“I need you to go upstairs, wake up Tralnor, and the both of you go into the back of Grandma Nora’s walk-in closet. There’s a little cupboard door just above the kickplate. Get in there and don’t come out until I go up and get you.”

No stopping to say he understood, Spock went to where Tralnor was still asleep on the music room sofa. The little boy was confused at first but followed instructions well enough. Expecting a small door to lead to a small space, the boys were surprised when they found enough room to stand.

“There is a light.” Tralnor seemed to blindly reach into the dark above his head when there was a click and a bare bulb dangling from a cord popped on. Tralnor let go of the string used to tug the switch.

Spock went back and pulled the door closed so he could evaluate this space. A narrow bed, sink, toilet, light source, all of it was old but functional. The MacCormacks had, over the centuries, seriously hidden some people for their own protection.

“Why are we in here?” Tralnor yawned and sat on the bed.

“My father’s attaché, Sajak, has arrived.”

The younger boy made contact with Spock’s mind, not needing to make a physical connection to use his telepathic abilities. (Sajak is not a very good person, Spock.)

Spock found his father’s underling an irritating presence, but there was nothing to indicate that the whiney young man was anything more than a harmless loudmouth. (How have you determined that?)

(He does not like Sarek.)

(There are a lot of people who do not like my father.)

Tralnor canted his head, thinking hard about what to say. (He thinks the ambassador is too friendly with humans, that Sarek suffers from a significant conflict of interest when dealing with earth matters.)

Spock climbed on the bed, willing the old springs not to make noise. (He sounds no different than my detractors at school.)

(What gets to Sajak the most is that your father made it so Mollie has irrevocable Vulcan citizenship. He thinks she should be stateless.)

(He would think that.) Spock’s variable encounters with Sajak were always distasteful. (He is convinced he’s got some kind of superiority over both our families.)

(It’s because he hates humans.)

(Hate is a strong word, Tralnor.)

(Sajak _hates_ humans.)

  
  
  
Justin braced himself for his unwelcome guests and didn’t wait for the cop knock to respond to the door. “Nice night, Dave, Rolly.”

“We think so.” Deputy Dave Texeira, from the way he held his mouth, had had all he could take of that nonce, Sajak. “Don’t we, deSilva?”

Deputy Rolanda “Rolly” deSilva grit her teeth and said, “It sure is. Beaut of an evening.”

Justin and the deputies had been in the same high school class where he and Dave played ball together. “Let’s get you in off the porch and pour a round of coffee.”

He said this and stared Sajak down, letting the tedious bureaucrat know that this was MacCormack territory, diplomatic immunity be damned.

“This is Lt. Ed Gannet, SFPD.” Dave made the introduction as they were escorted into the kitchen.

“Pleasure to meet you, Lieutenant.” Justin immediately set to work on getting the coffee made. Gannet knew he was being played by Sajak and couldn’t do anything but try to address the embassy employee’s so-called needs.

“The way the deputies tell it, you mostly live on Vulcan?” Gannet was at that age where he was ticking off the seconds until he could pull the pin and draw his pension. Spending the twilight of his career catering to Embassy Row wasn’t what he’d wanted, but due to some health problems, he tolerated it because he wanted a full retirement. The old cop didn’t know he was broadcasting his life’s story to the room.

“I’m an assistant professor in the Artificial Intelligence program at the Vulcan Science Academy. My wife has a research position in medicinal biochem. I always try to make it back to Turlock for Christmas. This year, my wife and son were able to join me.” Coffee machine done, he pulled down five mugs. He knew Sajak despised coffee and poured him some anyway. Milk from the fridge and sugar cubes from a porcelain bowl shaped like a fish and everyone was off to the proverbial races. “Cookies, anyone?”

“None for me, MacCormack. I’m going pack in about a dozen of them at the dinner.” Dave patted his belly. Everyone else claimed they were fine.

“How can I be of help to San Francisco’s finest?” Unless forced to address him directly, Justin would talk around Sajak, which was the only way to get anything done when that smarmy tattletale was around.

Of course, Sajak preempted the policeman.

“It has come to my attention that Ambassador Sarek’s son was removed from the custody of his in-laws.” Pretending like he had some kind of say about the situation, Sajak adopted that arrogant aura certain Vulcans got when dealing with the little people of the universe. “I am here to look into that claim and to evaluate the appropriateness of this, _household_ , as a place of shelter until the ambassador and his wife return to this planet.”

“Oh, really?” Justin had very little patience for ass-kissers of this ilk. “On speaking with my friend earlier today, he failed to inform me that he’d asked you to make a home visit.”

The three cops flashed knowing glances at Justin and one another. Stray thoughts like _silly twat_ and _useless douchebag_ let fly. Sajak was not the expert he thought when it came to keeping his feelings off his face and while he didn’t roll his eyes, Justin viewed him as if he had.

“I assure you that it is his son’s safety we at the embassy have in mind.” Sajak also thought he was a pretty good liar. He was a lousy fibber without a long-term memory on the Ah’delevna-MacCormack’s psionic abilities. He was so self-obsessed that he consistently forgot that Justin could read him like the proverbial book. “It is in your best interest that you bring the boy out so I may question him.”

“The flight that Sarek is on right now, is it running on Eastern Standard Time or Proxima Rusalka GMT?” Justin pulled the carafe from the coffee maker should anyone want a top-off. “Because if it’s Proxima Rusalka, I’m going to be waking him up so I can check on your story.”

Dave had to cough to keep from laughing.

Sajak thought he’d try his luck at a dick-measuring contest. “If you are not willing to comply with my request I will have to ask that Lt. Gannet search for the child.”

“One moment.” Justin stepped out of the kitchen and got into his messenger bag where it was stashed in the ground-floor office. Coming back, Sajak didn’t hide his irritation that the human reemerged without a little boy in tow. “Lieutenant, what’s your take on shaking down this house?”

Not wanting to be involved in this at all, Gannet hesitated.

“I am well within my authority to have the boy removed from your watch.” Sajak tried to throw his non-existent weight around.

Justin tossed his passport where it slid across the counter toward the SFPD man. Mobile comm-set in hand, he started to plug in Sarek’s information. Gannet picked up the ID, flipped through it, and read the information page over twice.

“You better not be wasting my time Mr. Sajak.” The veteran officer knew when he’d been had. “You didn’t tell me this was a dust-up with one of your own.”

The documentation book went back toward its owner.

In a tone hard enough to cleave a diamond, Sajak informed Gannet, “ _Justin MacCormack is not one of my own_.”

“Well, that passport says otherwise.” Gannet added a splash of fresh joe into his mug. “You sold this to the SFPD as some sort of nefarious custodial interference case where a resident of the State of California was involved in the kidnapping of an ambassador’s son. Dr. Ah’delvena-MacCormack was born up the road in Turlock and as such originated from earth, but legally, this man isn’t human and you know it.”

“ _So busted_.” Dave snickered.

“Now, I’m going to ask for two things. I want to get Mr. Sajak’s boss on the horn and then I want to talk to the kid.” Gannet gestured at Justin’s comm. “And if you dare to try and act like a chicken shit and pretend that this was some stupid misunderstanding, I’ll arrest you for obstruction and wasting police time. I can’t make the charges stick, but I can see to it that your paperwork gets misplaced and you get to spend a few nights in with the county jail’s general population.”

Sajak sucked in an uneven breath, deciding for once in his greasy life to keep his damned mouth shut. Justin punched the call button and they all waited until it connected.

  
  
  
Footsteps from a single adult encroached on the boys’ cranny. Spock and Tralnor knew it was Justin, but instructions were not to emerge until the dad beaconed they come out. Waiting on a knock, Spock was pleasantly aware of Justin’s words blooming in his mind.

(It’s mostly safe. Let’s have you follow me downstairs.)

The children crawled from the hide back into the closet.

(If Sarek has his way, Sajak is going to spend the entirety of his career as a static entity who stands a better chance of being hit by a bus than getting a promotion and a ticket off this cold, damp rock.) Justin made the kids stay behind him until he could gauge the threat level. “Lt. Gannet, Dave, Rolly, this is my son, Tralnor, and our guest, Spock.”

The deputies smiled, Deputy Texeira commenting, “That’s a MacCormack all right.”

“They’re too precious, Justin.” Rolly waved at them knowing she’d not get a response. “ _So cute_.”

“I understand your aunt and uncle down in Big Bear weren’t all that nice to you.” Gannet had an easy presence that granted people a sense of calm.

“No, Sir.” Spock refused to acknowledge Sajak’s existence even though the attaché would view it as a social slight. How did a child think he could brush off an adult in this way? _Let his feelings be hurt_ , Spock thought.

Over on the breakfast table, the cookie dough was wrapped in thin plastic sheeting so it didn’t dry out. Spock realized then that he had an idea of what the missing ingredient was. He’d prefer to talk about cookies to his experiences of neglect and abuse at the hands of the Wright-Graysons. The police kept Sajak from barging into the descriptions to offer his unwanted opinions and asking nosey questions. At one point, Deputy deSilva had to threaten to take Sajak out to the car if he didn’t stop derailing Spock’s interview.

“I’ve got some friends down in the SBSO.” Gannet said he’d personally deliver the information about Spock’s cousins to his San Bernardino counterparts. “Your father will be pressing charges against his wife’s family, and having heard directly from you, I’d be pressuring him to do so if he’d decided to let the matter slide.”

“Does this mean that I must return to Big Bear?” Spock’s biggest fear since arriving in Turlock was seeing those monsters again.

“No, honey.” Deputy deSilva had taken to the boys. “We won’t put you through that. Even if this whole thing goes to court, you can give your story over a comm. You don’t even have to be on the same planet.”

(Rolly and Dave are good people. They’re looking out for you, not Ben and Shelby, not Sajak.) Justin’s words effortlessly registered.

“Sorry to have taken up so much time on a fool’s errand.” Gannet collected a handshake from Justin.

“When dealing with certain delicate people, best to err on the side of caution.” Justin got nods from all three law enforcement officers.

“Isn’t that the truth.” Gannet got out a small rectangular card. “Give us a holler if you need anything between now and when San Bernardino has their fun with these lovely cousins.”

“Absolutely. You’ve got the information for us here at the house?” Justin didn’t have a fancy card but didn’t need one right then.

“I’ve got your name, the address, and a couple of folks right in Stanislaus County who know how to find you if need be. You boys be good for Santa, you hear?”

Not knowing what Gannet meant, Spock and Tralnor looked to one another hoping the other boy had the answer.

“No coal in these stockings.” Justin said. “Drive safe.”

“Roger that.” SFPD and Dave headed out first.

Sajak scowled at the children before saying to Justin, “Do not think this issue has come to a resolution in your favor.”

“Is that a threat, Mr. Sajak?” Rolly derailed the attaché’s stumbling sneak attack. “You, start for the car. I’ll be out in a sec.”

Upon hearing the exterior door open and close and seeing Sajak join the other two, Rolly said, “What a shit-show on wheels that guy is. I bet he was real popular in school.”

“Like he is amongst his work colleagues now?”

The adults laughed at Sajak’s expense and Spock didn’t find the display any form of inappropriate.

“I’ll see all of you at the dinner. Looking forward to all of those delicious cookies.” Rolly smiled and winked at the boys and let herself out the kitchen door.

When the police vehicle retreated toward Old Highway 99, Justin said, “We survived that remarkably well.”

“It’s a good thing that Sarek could talk to you on the comm. It made Sajak calm down.” Tralnor ran his hand through the spot the interloping Vulcan had occupied, picking up on the residue of thought and emotion before it faded completely. “He was very angry at you, Father. He thinks he should be looking after Spock because it would make him look good to rescue the ambassador’s son.”

“People like Sajak are always on the hunt for the next gimmick or cutting remark that might set them ahead.” Justin got everyone to wash their hands and put on aprons so the cookie dough got parceled out. “You will always encounter people of his sort so its best to develop a healthy sense of weariness around them.”

“He is bitter.” Tralnor followed.

“That is an excellent description of him.” Sheet plastic lifted off the dough, another cheese wire was used to lob off approximately one-kilo chunks.

“Tralnor told me earlier that Sajak both dislikes my father and that he hates humans. If he does not find any fulfillment in his profession, would it not be more rational to find different work?” Spock started taking cookie dough and weighing it on the produce scale. Any adjustments to the weight of the lumps, he’d sink his fingers into the sticky, oily substance and pull off excess or add more. When the right amount was locked in, Tralnor got to wrap the individual pieces in smaller plastic sheets.

“Sajak is someone who believes that he deserves more than he earns simply for being born to a specific family in a certain clan, at a fortuitous crossroads of time and space.”

“He wants a prize because he woke up this morning.” Tralnor probably could have gotten away with a smirk or grin at his comment but kept an even expression.

“As humans have put it for thousands of years, he thinks he was born with a silver spoon up his ass and is entitled to an awesome job by virtue of having a pulse.”

“And he would have taken you away from us if he’d thought he could get away with it. He is. . . Sajak is untrustworthy.” Tralnor finished wrapping another globule and stacked it with the others like it was a cut log ready for a fireplace. “He is unable to follow Surak’s biggest example of what Vulcans should be. Sajak does not live to serve and contribute to the well-being of everyone. He lives to serve himself.”

That, Spock decided, was an apt characterization of his father’s lackey. Spock hadn’t previously had the insight to read and interpret the petty man’s actions. He added another handful of dough to the latest lump.

“A man like Sajak has earned our pity, not our scorn.” Justin told the boys to keep working while he went out and got the kitchen wheelbarrow. Food use only, he’d said to Spock.

“When I am a man, one way I’m serving the people is that I’m going to be a T’Kehr of Temple Kotekru Kaylara.”

“I think you will be a very good teacher, Tralnor.”

A knock on the screen door and Justin asked for Spock to repeat his earlier actions, holding open the screen and letting another grand contraption into the kitchen. “The fridge where we’re putting all of this is in the same place the mixer lives when it’s not schlepping cookie dough around.”

That made sense. Industrial grade items were not designed for use in domestic spaces. Wheelbarrow parked near Tralnor’s station, it was quickly stacked with cookie-makings. “Spock, now that you’ve had some time to think about it, did you figure out what was missing from the recipe?”

“I believe so, Sir.”

“Your conclusion?”

“Cream of tartar.” Spock said.

“Can you tell me why you know that?” Justin prompted as he had earlier to help Spock gauge if he’d approached the issue from the right angle to begin developing a relevant solution.

“In our discussion about the chemistry of leavening that does not involve yeast or sourdough culture, we talked about the formation of gas bubbles. If we followed the instructions as written, the cookies would still bake and be palatable, but they would be thinner and crispier than what you wanted.” Spock twisted a bump from the dough on his scale, got it right, and finished his explanation. “Baking soda, once dampened and exposed to a heat source will give some rise. Baking soda, in combination with an acid, forms more bubbles and develops a higher rise in a shorter amount of time, therefore the cookies do not burn or spread out too much while they are in the oven.”

“Now that we know the missing ingredient, and from all of the flour, crystals, eggs, and powders I had out, what did I replace it with?”

“It has not been written into the recipe, nor has anything else been struck through. You did not replace any of the ingredients.”

“Explain the lack of substitution of there indeed is one.” This was the sort of way that Spock’s schoolteachers on Vulcan more or less got children used to an analytical mindset. It was also the way the MacCormacks were raised, no doubt part of the reason why they got on so well with Sarek and T’Lal’s people.

“Baking powder is a combination of cream of tartar and baking soda, Sir. You added the missing ingredient where it was in the guise of another substance.”

“Do you know how I knew to use baking powder instead of straight baking soda?” Here it was, the stinger at the end that could trip up an otherwise perfectly logical outline.

“No, Sir.”

“This particular recipe has been in use for so long that the baking powder is passed down like an oral tradition. I learned about this from my father. He learned from Grandma Nora. She learned from Great Grandfather Eldon. I’m not sure how far back it goes, but given the copyright page in the original copy of this book, we’re working with a well-loved facsimile, is from 1968, I’d suppose this was figured out in the late twentieth century.”

Spock nodded. While he questioned why someone had not gotten out a pen and indicated the change in the text, he appreciated it for the reminder that not everything is straightforward.

“And to relate this back to what you said to me earlier, blindly following procedure doesn’t guarantee results, you’re right. Someone all those years ago, either by evaluating the chemical reactions as presented on the page or baking powder was added to a batch of cookies in an accidental mix-up of ingredients, came to the conclusion this was the better leavening. Either way, the more favorable outcome was noted and the information lives on.”

“Thank you, Sir, for your willingness to show me several things today.” While he didn’t know if he’d ever help to make peanut butter cookies again, he’d come away with something of value by having done it the once.

“Any time, kiddo.”

***

“That’s not a book. It’s an exercise in driving me straight through to the nuthouse.” Dr. McCoy grumbled into his coffee. With T-minus three days until the party, there wasn’t a lot of wiggle room.

“You’ve only known about it overnight.” Kirk had to admit it was secretly hilarious to have a ringside seat as Spock and Bones went the rounds. As for who’d come out on top in the end, who knew? At least it would be entertaining. “And it’s got to be a fairly broad topic. He didn’t give me a title.”

“Do you know how damned hard it is to get your hands on a hard copy of a book, that in order to own it, you’d have to steal it from the special collections at a university library.” Oh yes, an exercise in sending the doctor round the bend.

“So, he got you.”

“ _Hell no he didn’t_. This ain’t over ‘till we find us a fat lady and invite her to sing some Christmas carols for us.” A twitch of an upper lip and mischief in his eyes, Bones said, “Be good to an old man and see what else he’s interested in reading.”

“You just said that—” Cut off by a derisive snort, Kirk fought hard to not start laughing his buns off.

“Don’t start, Jim.”

“Maybe you should be exploring the sno-cone machine thing again? Probably easier to get ahold of one out in these parts that even a copy of Old MacDonald’s Farm on paper.” A bit of silliness out of his system so he didn’t have to spend the first forty-five minutes on the bridge acting like a twitchy wreck, Kirk pushed his chair back from the table and headed off to officially start his day.

  
  
  
On their way down to main engineering to examine some strain of gremlin in the works, the mausoleum-like silence grated on the captain. “Do you like socks?”

Uh-oh! Flaming-not-the-tiniest-bit-amused side-eye flashed in Kirk’s direction. “As a functional item, socks serve their purpose.”

At least he answered. Maybe that was a good sign? “That was kind of a dick move yesterday. . . a _book_. I applaud you for your creativity. I haven’t seen Bones this flustered in ages. I can’t wait to see what kind of a chase you put him up to next year.”

And back to that only-awkward-for-one-person quiet. As he knew better, Kirk couldn’t tell himself that he woke up in a different dimension today. The lift opened and before the captain could get out, Spock mostly clogged up the exit. What was this about?

Head tilted slightly down and to the left where sounds more easily registered in his sensitive ear, he said, “The ship is singing, Captain.”

Now he was on the move and Jim was left in the car second-guessing his supposition about falling through the floor and landing in a separate plane of existence. “ _Singing_?”

Spock, in what seemed out of his usual habit, not that Kirk really knew what that was quite yet, stopped and waited for his superior officer to catch up. “If you cannot hear it, which is possible given the limited range of human hearing, place your hand flat against the bulkhead and let the physical sensation of the music tell you what it is supposed to sound like.”

 _Okay, fine_ , he thought. Spock lacked the mean streak to deliberately set his captain up to look like a chump. Palm on sheet metal, he was ready to tell this guy to shove it when differing vibrations tickled his inner ears. It wasn’t sound per-say, but his brain could indeed extrapolate a musical quality from what his nerves sent to his brain.

“That’s crazy. Why would anyone make the Enterprise sing?”

“It is a diagnostic tool. If the engines and the ship are out of phase, the harmonic resonance of the music will make it sound as though it is off-key. Thus the engineers can make any needed corrections.”

Montgomery Scott was looking particularly pleased. “She’s got a lovely voice, doesn’t she?”

“It’s different.” Kirk looked around wondering what other high strangeness was going to crash into him.

“This way, Sir.” Scotty took them on a protracted wander around the bay as he prattled on about how when he was a junior officer working graveyards aboard this ship several years ago now that boredom had driven him and a colleague to make the ship a source of music.

When thought about in a more practical sense, Kirk saw how the stunt wound up working. “Is this something you’ve shared with other engineers?”

“I have, Sir. Other than guys who’ve served with me here, fellows would rather go at it with less effective scanning devices because its what they know.” Crossing through an area they’d passed once before, the engineer kept right on talking. “This, you don’t have to be an engineer to run and interpret the test. All the training that’s involved is being a half-arsed musician. And there’s a lot of those if you know what I’m on about.”

He didn’t offer a response and tried to temper any irritation toward his first and second officers as they took him on a steeplechase. The sound of a familiar voice clearing his throat made Jim’s bullshit detector start to ding. What the heck was this bunch up to?

“In the office with you, Doctor’s orders.” McCoy waltzed in like he owned the joint, offered a grin to the engineer and a nod of thanks to the science officer. That’s when Kirk noticed Bones’ hands weren’t empty.

“Oh no, what did you do?” He let them funnel him into Scotty’s private office.

Door closed and locked to the outside, the doctor and engineer were cats dining on canaries. Scotty smiled wide. “We didn’t want to do this in front of the whole crew, Sir, on account of there not being enough to go around.”

“Merry Christmas, Jim.” The doctor handed off something that was swaddled in a towel.

“Open it, right now?”

“Or stand there and look pretty and open it later.” Bones said. “Whatever floats your boat.”

Anticipation tickled down the center of his spine. Removing the towel, he found a bottle of twenty-five-year-old scotch. “You were in on this too?”

Spock lifted an affirmative brow.

“Thank you, all three of you.” Jim was left nearly speechless in his gratitude.

***

Mollie was relating her day in the city, starting with she was glad Spock hadn’t been there because that meant she could keep her gift to him a surprise. “The only real excitement at the embassy was about you. People are disgusted that you were treated like you were. Lots of them wondered how someone as nice as your mom was related to people who’d hurt her baby.”

Was she talking about the _Vulcan_ Embassy? Spock thought the concern was manufactured so no one appeared openly derogatory toward the ambassador’s son.

“Then, Sajak went missing. Poof, disappears into who knows where. It took a while, but we figured out that he came all the way down here so he could try to shove his dumb self into the action. Livia called him a sad little vulture.”

Inside, Spock smiled at that one. “When he challenged Justin, he was easily bested, and still tried to act like he had come away with a victory.”

“ _Sad little vulture_.”

The smells of fresh-baked confections permeated the Big House. The teens and most of the adults were on the task of taking raw dough and turning it into real cookies. Part of that contingency was out in the old garage, running trays of drop cookies through a conveyer-style pizza oven that was only about twenty years younger than Big Momma. Mass production of tasty treats was down to a science at the Ah’delvna- MacCormack house. Rolled, cut sugar cookies gave the home an odor of pleasant thoughts and sweet dreams. Those were in the double wall ovens down in the kitchen.

“I wish I could have seen Sajak and Uncle today. It’s always nice when someone so awful is proven wrong.”

“He will not learn from it.” Spock was not optimistic that Sajak could use this as an impetus to improve his life. Tralnor was right about him, he was too interested in helping himself. Spock could add that it was obviously possible to be so narcissistic that the aide didn’t know he was hamstringing his own effort.

“He’s just the kind of person who calls the authorities on you because he got hurt stealing stuff from your house.”

“Justin said he deserves our pity.” There was one way that Spock identified with his father’s long-suffering drudge. Going through life without many, or any, friends was unpleasant and lonely at the best of times. Sajak probably didn’t have a Mollie and a Tralnor he got to see at least once a week.

“Well, it’s hard to be mad at someone like that. He’s like Ilee.” Mollie nodded to herself. “And she’s a sorry, unhappy person.”

“What else did you do? Shopping and the embassy did not take up the whole day.” These easygoing, inconsequential conversations were some of his favorite things about being with his friend.

“We had lunch out at the pier. You wouldn’t have liked it. It was too loud with music and people yelling so they could hear one another and the food wasn’t very good. It was cold inside because we were out on the water. I didn’t like it at all.” If there were two things Mollie didn’t appreciate, it was being cold and wet. “We walked around for a while and went to a museum that was close to the restaurant. It was mostly about the history of the pier and the old shipping industry. The most interesting thing was a little section on the fish and animals that used to live around there.”

Huddled together in their bed, Mollie reached out and stole another blanket from Tralnor’s bed. Once it was draped over them, she went on. “The oceans here are so much bigger than we think they are. There used to be gargantuan mammals that lived in the water, but the whales are all gone now. Can you imagine an animal that’s fifteen meters long and weighs over twenty-five tons?”

“That is a larger creature than anything that has ever lived on Vulcan.”

“I wish the display said more, but that’s really all it had to say about them.” She pressed into him, still trying to get warm. “Did you do anything besides visit with Sajak and make cookie dough?”

“Justin is starting to teach me to play guitar.” He gave her a mental image of the lesson. There was a lot more to it than simple musical instruction.

She smiled. “You got some dad time.”

“Pardon?”

“Justin wants to make sure that all of us, especially kids like me who don’t have fathers, get a father figure.” Her fingers were icicles against Spock’s skin.

“I have a father, Mollie.” Such as he was.

“You have a dad who works so fiendishly that you don’t get to see him for weeks on end. Most of the time, Sarek isn't even on Vulcan. Justin is trying to let you know that if you ever need him, for anything, he’ll never turn you away.” She began to yawn, all of the travel and excitement started to catch her. “So, if there’s something that you don’t want to talk to a girl about, and Sarek is off-world like he is so much, call Justin. He’s always willing to do more for you than kick down a door.”

He didn’t want to say that’s what he’d hoped. There were going to be things that were too intimate to call on his mother about and knowing he had access to and the influence of a good man meant a lot to him.

“Tomorrow.” Another yawn, this time Mollie’s jaw popped. “We’re cutting out lots and lots of paper snowflakes and decorating cookies.”

The hallway outside the sleeping porch creaked with the weight of an adult. Spock and Mollie turned toward the noise to find Grandma Nora coming toward them, a plate in one hand. “Fresh from the oven.”

“Thank you.” Spock took the plate, feeling the still-warm treats through the ceramic.

“Oh, yum. Thank you, Grandma Nora.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Until today, I had never heard of a peanut butter cookie.” Spock picked up one of them and sank his teeth into it. All of the pleasure centers of his brain lit up.

“Good, aren’t they?” Nora left them with the plate.

“Yes, Ma’am.” He said. It was wonderful to smell, taste, and feel all of the processes he and Justin had talked about earlier. He approved of the practical and delicious chemistry lesson and anticipated more sessions like that in the future.


	6. Chapter 6

When Mollie said they were cutting out “lots and lots” of snowflakes that was only the barest description of what they were doing. Yes, there were scissors and paper, and the final tangible result of the work was a hoard of paper snowflakes. The details Mollie left out revolved around the entire task being used to teach emotional channeling. Focus on the physical process, identification of disruptive feelings and thought patterns, take the concentration brought on by this intricate snipping and a person found themselves less distracted by the turmoil in their own heads.

Taking stock of the dining room, Spock was aware of how different this family was. Psionic children, of the human or Vulcan variety, needed to develop a state of emotional discipline that so-called normal humans, like the Wright-Graysons, would find suffocating. Lack of control sent young minds spiraling. Thus there were stories about untrained, emotionally volatile, mentally ill human psions who hurt themselves and others. It was simply too easy to let pain or anger take over the thought process where they were the path of least resistance as compared to stopping, thinking about what was going on, and seeking rational responses to outside stimuli.

The room had a din of light chatter, not the screaming, spastic, free-for-all that Spock endured down in Big Bear. The Ah'delevna-MacCormack children were calm, no one was unhappy, and there were easy smiles back and forth. He liked these humans and was developing an understanding as to how Sarek was friends with Justin, Livia, and Theresa, in ways that had nothing to do with who T’Lal married.

Another snowflake for the pile, where all the finished ones were going to use as some of the decorations for the community dinner. Tabitha and Richie went off on a jag of laughter, which in this context didn’t seem inappropriate or extraneous. They weren’t being obnoxious.

“I wish I would have come directly here rather than spend days with my cousins.”

“Then next year, that’s what we’ll do.” Mollie said as though it was a fact.

_Next year_? Spock thought.

“Not even Sarek will say it’s a bad idea.” She let off what someone else might have considered a naughty grin, but Spock knew that expression as something that came right before she tended to say something he agreed with. She held up another intricate snowflake, trimmed out with tiny fingernail scissors. “Even though the MacCormacks call it something different, how many other families are there on earth who teach fe-shal’van’um hayal to their kids?”

The Calm Preceding Introspection, one of the techniques Vulcans used to ready their minds for the meditative trance, was taught to children as part of the build-up to learning proper meditation. It was also utilized by people who needed to clear their thoughts from emotional interference. “I doubt there are very many.”

Mollie started to say something and shut her mouth. Grandma Nora walked up with three coffee mugs clenched in one hand and a stack of minuscule paper cups in the other. Mollie knew what this was, wrinkled her nose, and said, “Ewe, do we have to?”

Mugs set out in front of Mollie, Tralnor, and Spock, Nora took a bit longer to pass out the paper cups. She had to look inside each one to determine who got what. “Earth and its food supply are missing some of the trace elements and minerals your bodies need to stay healthy. Vulcans have slightly different nutritional needs than we humans do.”

“These taste like aluminium foil caught in your teeth, plus dirt, and some kind of strawberry or something. So gross. Then we have to drink one-hundred-and-fifty mils of milk that has some other green-tasting thing in it. Green-tasting thing has to be in milk because it needs that little bit of acid and the calcium, otherwise, we’d be drinking mild vinegar water, mashed up antacids, and the green stuff.” Mollie’s face said she’d do this, but that she didn’t have to like it.

“I wish there was a better way of doing this for children, but the intravenous drips adults can take aren’t as effective on the very young. The digestive tract is just better at some things.” Grandmother stood and waited for full consumption of compounded tablets and milk mixture.

Spock’s immediate thought was that Mollie had not chosen strong enough descriptors. Gross didn’t begin to cover for the horror in his mouth. The only thing that got him through was the promise of a cookie for choking it all down. He’d drink an entire bucket of coffee/rum/chocolate before choosing this combination again.

Tralnor powered through, sucking down the milk in a continuous chug to wash away the lingering bits of tablet. Setting the mug down, face leaning toward pale, he said, “That was revolting.”

The other kids offered looks or comments of sympathy. They thought there were easier, tastier ways of getting a cookie before dinner.

“My mother gave something to Ben and Shelby that was provided by a healer. They were supposed to give it to me every three days. I believe this was my first dose.” He recalled Amanda firmly reminding her favorite cousin that her son needed his vitamins.

“We thought it easiest to make the three of you go on the same schedule. Also, we wanted to give you some time to recuperate from Big Bear.” Nora said as T’Lal walked in with a plate of cookies.

“I can tell by the expressions on your faces that you have all made it beyond the shock and almost-throwing up stage. When I first arrived here and for the initial six years I lived on earth and worked with exclusively human freighter crews, I too was forced to consume this bilge.”

“How old were you when you could finally stop, Mother?”

“I was nearly twenty-two.”

“That’s not what they wanted to hear.” Nora collected mugs and paper cups. “Poor babies.”

Forlorn, Mollie said, “I don’t want to be doing this when I’m twenty-two.”

  
  
  
Sarek was far more collected than the morning after Spock’s rescue. Another two days and he’d finally be able to clap eyes on his son. “Nor do I know what Sajak is trying to achieve with this meddling. I am almost certain that he is sabotaging himself on purpose. The reason for this, I cannot discern.”

“The local cops thought he was a grade-a fuck up.” Justin was checking in on his friends’ travel and their progression back toward earth. “There’s no thinking involved, really. He’s a grade-a fuck up.”

Amanda let off a sly grin. She had about as much use for Sajak as a cat did with a set of oven mitts. “That you have a place where the children were stowed and inaccessible to him was a blessing.”

“That little hidden room has kept a lot of vulnerable people safe over the years. I know it wasn’t initially built into the house and it pre-dates the Eugenics Wars by nearly a century, but that was when it saw the most use. We were a stop on an underground railroad that kept psions away from the factions who’d exploit them in a race to develop the most ‘advanced’ human specimens.”

“That wasn’t one of humanity’s high points.” Amanda said.

“What are your departure plans when your holiday is over, Justin?”

“Nothing set in stone, but I think Livia and Mollie are looking to head out on the twenty-eighth. I wanted to stay until after New Years. If T’Lal wants to take Tralnor home before then, that’s fine.”

“I ask because someone on my staff has just lost his travel privileges and there are now open seats on my shuttle for the return trip to Vulcan on December thirtieth.” Sarek had been in the process of letting that twerp go on a visit home!

“I’ll let all concerned parties know.”

“Thank you, and your family, for everything.” Amanda appeared better now than at the beginning of the call.

“You’re welcome.” When the call ended, Justin did feel sorry for Sajak. That sympathy only went so far though. The attaché railroaded himself.

A knock on the doorframe got him to swivel around in the office chair. “Hey.”

“Are you ready to decorate a fuck-ton of cookies?” Livia wandered in.

“Snowflakes are over, already?” Damn, he’d been on that call for almost two hours, explaining yesterday in excruciating detail.

“All bagged up and ready to go.”

“I guess I don’t get a lot of leeway on what I’m doing next?” He stood up.

“All three of ours survived their supplements. They’re tougher kids than I was at those ages.”

“Oh yeah. I’d have cried and puked all the way from here to Sunday and back.” He’d smelled the mess earlier when Grandma Nora was concocting it in the kitchen. Molecules of scent and flavor in the air were enough to leave Justin queasy. “They’d have to pin me down like a dog, coat the pill in peanut butter, and stuff it down the back of my throat.”

“Well, come on, those snowman cookies aren’t going to put carrots on their crotches all by themselves.”

“Livia, what are we going to do with you?”

***

Spock was going to have to give his junior bridge officers a rebuking for leaving crumbs, coffee rings, greasy splotches, and sticky spots on and around the science station in the ship’s nerve center. The reason he knew the problem was worse than it looked was that his better-than-human sense of smell picked up the odors of two, possibly three strains of mold and rot. What, he wondered, would it look like if he removed the housings on the consoles, a dormitory refrigerator gone off?

Over a lifetime, he had learned to tolerate a lot of rancid behavior and disgusting habits. Putting up with the residue of meals past was not one of those practices. Slovenly people had no place in his department, and if it were up to him, such individuals would be transferred off the ship immediately and replaced with those who respected themselves, their peers, and their workplace enough to keep things clean and organized.

Remnants of last night’s chili con carne encrusted one of the dials on his board. He’d check the rota and see who was up here last night. That person was not going to have a very merry Christmas, possibly less so than that of the others he needed to find. He typed up a quick memo requesting a short meeting with all of his officers who worked the bridge. He thought about cornering them at lunch but knew that was a bad idea. While it was easier to gather everyone together at mealtimes, until people got their blood-sugars back up to a level where they had fuel for their brains, discussing any of this was useless. He went with 1420, after lunch, before the squirming about quitting time began.

While scraping crap out of the key-work, Spock was aware that he was being watched. Jim Kirk, up from the center seat to stretch his legs, was in the midst of a wander around the upper deck. The captain wasn’t paying attention to anything else and walked straight into a crewman who wasn’t fast enough on the draw to get out of the man’s way. Was this curiosity, some sad strain of infatuation, irritation that McCoy was more stumped about gifts than ever? He was hesitant to ask Kirk because it was just the sort of observation/question that would embarrass the young captain.

Spock needed to figure out the origin of these lingering gazes. There was some certainty that it started out weeks ago as a response to a non-human in such close proximity. Now that they had grown somewhat used to one another, it was hard for Spock to more blatantly draw conclusions from something like a stare-down. But then, from all that he’d observed in his years away from his people, humans stared. They did it out of subconscious morbid desires, want to intimidate perceived rivals, an appeal to someone they found sexually attractive, warning of danger ahead, there were so many choices and so few ways for him to discern what the real meaning was.

Intimidation? No, Kirk would not pussyfoot about if he thought Spock was competition. The curiosity about Vulcans factor had faded away, though it was still there in some capacity. Danger? Danger of what? That meaning did not make sense within the context of a quiet starship bridge where the only thing going on was that Enterprise was in-transit. Was the captain checking him out as it were? That seemed less likely than the intimidation factor. In all of the research he’d done on the man before his take-over of the ship, Spock was certain of a few things about Kirk: he was a young rising star, he sometimes bent the rules for the greater good, and he was very much attracted to females.

Kirk’s behavior was not unnerving like it would have been coming from some of the other crew, Nurse Chapel being the best example of someone whose gaze left him feeling like he’d swallowed something caustic. At this point, there was no need to call Kirk out. Spock was not offended, just curious about the root cause. Above all else, he knew not to read more into it than was presented as heterosexual people didn’t often dabble with partners of the same sex. Someone like James Kirk, he didn’t need to sniff around anyone who didn’t have a DD cup and a wiggle in her walk.

“Mr. Spock?”

“Captain?”

“I don’t know why I’m bothering to ask since you always tell me no, did you want to head down for lunch?”

“I do not need to eat lunch, though I will take advantage of the allotted break time.” Spock could not have anticipated the reactions of the rest of the bridge crew.

“ _First time for everything_.” Mr. Riley commented from his seat at the helm.

Kirk had to stop and think about what he’d heard, if it had come through correctly. “Well then, enjoy your break.”

Spock stepped in the waiting lift car and let it whisk him away. He’d thought about trying to place this call later in the day, but with the time differences involved, now was ideal. In his quarters, no dive-bombing nurses on the attack, he entered a familiar code into his private comm. Two people weighed heavy on his mind and he’d ask about both.

“Hello, Spock. It’s good to hear from you.” Justin’s mouth had slight upward ticks at the corners. “I’ve made sure to get your ornament up on the tree.”

“Thank you, Sir.” He could see his purple orb hanging on one of the branches. Someday, he’d find a way to be on earth and return it to the tree in person. Until then, it was done by proxy. “I do not have long to talk but these are two issues I would like your suggestions on.”

“We’ll try to make this fast.” Gone slightly silver in the temples, Justin was still very much the man who’d been there for Spock in the past.

“Number one: What, if anything, is to be done about Detective Zadie Pambakian?” Just having the woman’s name roll off his tongue was like spitting out a razor blade.

A sigh, shake of his head, quick look away, Justin refocused on the camera. “Mollie’s an adult who’s allowed to make her own mistakes. However, the blame isn’t all on Mollie. We didn’t do a very good job of preparing her, or you, or Tralnor, on how to spot and reject predatory romantic partners. It wasn’t as important for you and Tralnor because you were both bonded. Mollie doesn’t have that extra layer of defense and even if she does know how wrong Zadie is for her, she might think its too late and that she has to own the actions and the person who’s done a remarkable job of taking her away from us.”

“I was certain you would say something similar to this.” Spock hated this fuzzy, helpless feeling.

“She’s got to _want_ out, Spock. We can’t force her to leave this woman, she’s got to make her own decision to walk away. The best we can do right now is let this play out. We don’t have to like it.”

“She does not heed advice. Tralnor said Sarek attempted to argue sense to her.” For once, Sarek was right, and Mollie had ignored him.

“Things will come around. Give it some time. She might come out metaphorically bumped and bruised, but I think it’s going to be okay in the end. At least, that’s my hope.” In one of the few raw displays of emotion he’d seen on Justin, the older man looked desperately sad. “It’s really damned hard to see one of your kids hurt like this. You want to swoop in and make everything all better, but real life, real people, they don’t work that way.”

_Then we wait_ , Spock thought. “This is not my desired immediate outcome for her, but I do not have the reach or influence that I might if I was physically there.”

“Should she ever find herself in peril, one of us will get to her, but she’s not looking for active interference against someone she believes she loves.” A couple of ding-dongs from a mantle clock announced the arrival of thirty minutes past the hour on Justin’s end. 

“Second question: I am asking you because I believe as a human male you will have a better understanding of this than I do.”

“Okay. Let’s hear it.”

New captain, parties, possible friendship, Spock laid it all out. Justin agreed with Tralnor, Kirk would likely be an excellent friend. Where things got off-kilter was in Spock’s perception of what his new boss saw in him. “While I am certain to a high degree that there is no potential for sexual attraction, how am I to be certain?”

“Saved the real tough one for last.”

“I do not need a response immediately. Perhaps later you can call back with your advice?”

“Yeah. Good plan.” Justin nodded. “Gives me time to think about this for a little while. So, before you hit that disconnect, answer this one question for me.”

“Yes, Sir?”

“Are you doing okay? A yes or no is perfectly adequate. You don’t have to give me any more than that.”

What was there to say? If this was a talk with Amanda, she’d want a full breakdown of every thought and feeling that had run through his head since the last time they’d been in touch. “Sir, I am okay.”

***

Frosting the hundreds upon hundreds of sugar cookies was quite the endeavor. Where this could have been done in an assembly line style, it was felt that having the same person see a cookie through from naked quick bread to adorned masterpiece gave these an interesting and unique look. The family was broken down into groups of four. Each station had bowls of base frosting in white, red, blue, and green, piping bags in several colors of the rainbow, tiny candies, sprinkles, and edible glitter rounded out the embellishments.

This was harder, a lot harder than Grandma Nora made it look when she demonstrated the process for Spock, Mollie, and Tralnor. Jason, their fourth member, he’d done this for years and got right into the beat, getting snowmen, round ornaments, gifts, and stars made up with a spread-on layer of frosting so he could then go back in with the bags for detail work.

Unable to keep this neat, the decorative paste being thicker and more awkward than paint, Spock had the blue under his fingernails, on the disposable tablecloth, and some going up his left sleeve where his frosting knife had slipped off the point of a star and skiffed his clothes. He had to remind himself not to get frustrated that these were not turning out to some commercialized version of perfect. Some people, Nora and Theresa, were surgeons and had rocksteady hands and the ability to make fast, beautiful, intricate designs. Cousin Tabitha, who’d also been doing this since she was a small girl, turned out cookies that looked like they were done by someone blindfolded and using their non-dominant hand.

Spock assessed his finished treats. His were different than Mollie’s, different than Tralnor’s, and he liked that. He appreciated this approach and saw how it made the cookies more appealing to the people who’d be eating them at the dinner.

“Mollie, why do you have to take that gross medicine?” Jason set another nice star on a cooling rack with his other finished cookies. “It’s obvious why Spock and Tralnor do, but you’re human.”

Her eyes flashed at the sound of that word, _human_. “I was gestated and am being raised on Vulcan. I was born adapted to that world, not earth.”

Jason thought for a moment. “That makes sense. It’s also why you’re as cold here as these two?”

“Yeah. Sweaters have become my new favorite thing.” She set down a reasonable facsimile of an ornament bulb.

“You’re stronger than me too.” Jason snapped up a gift box and started smearing red on it. “Is that from the gravity?”

“It is.” She chose a snowman for her next cookie.

“So that means you can’t compete against normal humans in running or football or shot-put because the rules say you have an unfair advantage.” Jason didn’t look like he appreciated that at all. “But they do that to all humans who grow up in higher gravity. It just doesn’t seem fair.”

“I’m not worried about it. I can’t do anything by changing me or trying to change the rules. I don’t want to be a sports star anyway.” White applied to her cookie, she took up a piping bag and started giving her snowman a scarf. “Fungus, what are you doing?”

“Making sure that each of these has the same thing on it so no one can claim their cookie is missing anything.” The cooling rack in front of Tralnor, each of his cookies was frosted in green, each had an identical amount and type of candy and sprinkles. What they did not have was any suggestion that they were what they were cut out to be.

“We’ll for certain know which ones yours are.” Jason picked up some candies to stick on his newly frosted goodie.

“How very Cubist of you.” Justin was pushing a bakers rack and collecting completed cookies. “We’ll have to frame one and have it displayed at an art gallery, sell it for big money.”

“What does that mean, Father?”

“It’s a style of art that originates here on earth that’s had varying degrees of popularity in the last few centuries. Avant-garde is a word you hear tossed around a lot in conjuncture with Cubism. It was, at the time it came into being, an experimental mindset that gave rise to people like Picasso. It was seen as non-traditional.” Justin liberated all of this group’s finished items.

“Is it the same kind of _non-traditional_ that the three of us are, Uncle?” Mollie set down the one she was working on. 

“By non-traditional, she means despised.” Tralnor said.

“Spock, Mollie, Tralnor, you’re in the music room with me, starting now.” Justin shot a telepathic message to Nora, Livia, and T’Lal.

“Sir, are we in trouble?” Mollie was the first to speak when the music room’s door closed them all away from the rest of the house.

“No, none of you are in trouble.” He led them to a conversational grouping of furniture that looked out a nearly floor-to-ceiling bay window. “I don’t know a lot of the mundane details of your daily lives now that you’re in school. What I’ve heard and observed is that you’re not thought of very highly by your peers or your teachers.”

“We’re not liked by anyone in ShiKahr. We scare people just because we exist.” Sharing what other Vulcans felt about them, Tralnor brought a cast of sadness to his father’s eyes. “And it’s not because we all have a human parent. We are picked on for supposedly being bad science. People think we are what happens when medical ethics don’t get followed. Mollie and I are bullied because we’re Lyr Saan and that neither of us is human enough for people’s comfort. Spock is targeted because he’s too human.”

The faces and taunts of his classmates brought to the forefront of his mind, Spock also thought of the Wright-Graysons, for whom he was far too alien to meet their brand of approval. “I have asked some individuals what they would have me do to remediate my human shortcomings. I get varied answers, but the most common are leave Vulcan and never come back or drop dead.”

“It’s because of these kinds of reactions that I wish it was possible to get you three into the same school. There is safety and support when you’ve got friends. When I was your age and dealing with this same garbage, I had my twin brother, Livia, Tabitha’s dad, and Meggie’s mom. We were all within one or two grades of one another and we ran in a pack. There is a lot of truth in the saying about strength in numbers.” Justin said. “But with the way schools work on Vulcan, you go to the one the Masters and the entrance exams say you will. Here, we’d probably take you boys out of the schools you’re in and send all three of you to Mollie’s.”

“They’d never let you do that.” Mollie said as she drew her legs up and sat Indian-style on the couch.

“I know, Mollie.”

“At school, I have to use my real name, and it makes a lot of people angry. I’ve been told by adults and students that I’m not worthy of my name. They don’t like that I am Mallia Ah’delevna and not actually Mollie MacCormack.”

“It’s frustrating as hell to see you kids go through this. Now, the main reason why I pulled you up here is this: Even though it probably feels like you’re alone, you against the universe, you have each other. It might not be when school is in session, but those other hours of the day, you’ve got that advantage of strength in numbers. Rely on one another, support one another, be the friend you would like to have and the others will follow suit. As much as I would love to march into your headmasters’ offices and read them the riot act that only makes things tougher on you. Those other kids and teachers riding your asses now will only become resentful, and this kind of resentment breeds an angry hostility that will see things much worse for you than they are now.”

Spock had long expected that this resentment was why Sarek demanded that Amanda stop trying to interject herself into his school life. “My classmates don’t think I am worthy of my name either. Their most recent nickname for me is Tekerik, and I find that I cannot come out with a counter against them because the word they are using, it is an accurate description of me.”

Tralnor winced at Spock’s self-debasement. Perhaps with a bit too much passion, the little boy said, “ _You are not a deviant_.”

“None of you are.” Justin’s judgement on that was final. “And regardless of what a bunch of envious adults who’re unhappy with their lives and miniature terrors acting out their parents’ prejudices have to say about you, if you continue to live well, you’ve beaten them without so much as a word. Understood?”

It was hard to agree with Justin, not when so much of what those hurtful people said was actually true. “Sir, what if they are right?”

“They’re not.” Tralnor was so keyed into Spock’s state of mind that it was like the other child was the personification of the rational part of his thoughts. The path of least resistance, the illogical way of seeing himself was easier, more comfortable than coming up with the justification for his own continuance.

“They are not right, Spock. The only way they’re right is if you let them be.” Tralnor stared into him, continuing to find the truth. “They are only right if you care what they think.”

“It’s not so easy, Tralnor. People are so terrified of what you might do to them that they don’t usually keep going after you.” Mollie’s dealings with these hateful jerks were more similar to Spock’s. They dealt with the same people, day after day, for years on end, who seemed to only exist so they might ply a little boy and girl with their manifested insecurity and fear.

She had a good point. A Lyr Saan hyper-empath was about the most universally reviled type of person on all of modern Vulcan. Spock sometimes glimpsed why they harbored such opinions, like the time when he’d seen Tralnor hauled out of a museum because he accidentally touched an ancient artifact and it forced a bolus of lingering hell into the young boy. That really did scare people. It scared Spock sometimes, but he had enough of an education on what a mair-rigolauya was and how they worked that he could push that irrational fear to the side.

“If you care about others’ ideas about you, and all they want to do is watch you fail and disappear, that is letting them win.” Tralnor was holding fast. “You can’t give that to them. It’s more power that they can use against you.”

Spock absentmindedly felt at his wrists where he’d been tied. Had he cared what the Wright-Graysons thought of him? Yes, he had. In his desire for acceptance, he’d cared deeply about their feelings toward him. Look what that had wrought. In school, the boys who mercilessly goaded and insulted him, unfortunately, what they thought did matter. As the son of Sarek, he’d been under a microscope since birth and would have been regardless of who or what his mother was. Spock was born as a high-status individual and had certain standards he needed to uphold. That included currying a favorable reputation from his peers.

Tralnor cocked his head to the side. “At first, you decided you weren’t going to get up from the snow.”

_No, I wasn’t_ , Spock thought.

“It was after they beat you up, but before they locked you in that big wooden box.” Eyes closed for a second, almost willing that Spock’s response to his cousins’ abuse had been different, Tralnor said, “ _Always get up, Spock_.”

***

Spock’s meeting with his bridge officers started late when Ensign Corey Chalmers misread the memo and thought he didn’t have to be there. Pulled from his leisure time, the recent Academy graduate was convinced his boss had it out for him. When people thought adhering to general discipline and keeping house was a form of persecution, that showed how much that individual needed an assignment elsewhere. As Chalmers wasn’t a vital component of any specific research team or department, a generically versatile biologist was easily swapped out for another with a comparable skill set and experience.

The only people in the room not wearing science blues were Lt. Uhura and three of her linguists whom she shared with anthropology. He knew he didn’t have to worry that Uhura and the linguists were filthy because she would not stand for it. He still included them so the Chalmers’ of the world didn’t have a false example of favoritism.

Situation explained, he thought he’d try waiting for anyone to admit to being gross in an attempt at avoiding sounding harsh to those who never so much as had a glass of water while on the bridge. He’d learned this approach from the former CMO, Dr. Boyd. If that didn’t work, which sometimes it didn’t, he could start going through the rota and calling out people by name. Unfortunately, due to human nature, the results, while gleaning the same information, could build animosity, a fate Spock hoped to avoid.

Sha’leyen and Uhura glanced around the table with the communications officer speaking out first. “Someone had better answer. Who of you thinks they’re too good to clean up after themselves?”

Silence.

“So, Officer Nobody goes up to the bridge in the middle of the night to muck up the inputs and leaves bacteria and fungus-growing crap all over the surfaces of a station we all use?” Sha’leyen’s method of addressing the topic was very much born out of her police background. She was trained to question everyone and everything, never trusting an answer until it was certifiably proven true. “Officer Nobody is creating a disgusting health hazard.”

Still, no one talking, Spock decided to let Sha’leyen keep going. She’d proclaimed once, about three-and-a-half years past, that she was his surrogate hard-ass. Where he had to deflect a reputation of being a cold, uncaring man whose pursuit of these transgressions labeled him a petty nitpick, using a Scotland Yard detective to channel the same search had the desired effect because people had the expectation that Sha’leyen would be relentless, results-driven, and not bothered if she trod on people’s feelings.

Boyd’s method of drawing out information a nonstarter, Sha’leyen laced her fingers and set her hands on the table. “For those of you not in the know, I started with the Met as a civilian scene of crime scientist. I have an extra-large fishing tackle box that houses my kit and I have no reservations about taking it up there when we’re done here and collecting samples so I can run the DNA on them. Ultimately, all Mr. Spock is looking for is that we respect shared equipment and one another.”

_You have better things to spend your time on, Mr. Spock, let me be the villain_ , she’d said the same time as the hard-ass comment. _Besides, Sir, I am not the kind of person who puts great stock in what others think of me. That is not why I do this job._

He knew it shouldn’t matter what opinions his subordinates carried of him. The regard of other people, something his father’s family placed great importance on, was a spectre he could not shake. He was indoctrinated from a young age to believe reputation and honor were deeply intertwined, that the perception of someone like Lt. Chalmers was indeed important because of what he told other people about Spock. Clan Surak as a whole was perhaps too involved and too dependent on the impressions of others for their own self-image. So, yes, there were times when a Sha’leyen having his back and taking a lot of the heat that should have been directed at him was respite from yet another circle of people who would draw the conclusion that he was a lesser being.

“Should no one come forward and claim responsibility for this ongoing issue, I will see to it that my bridge officers are deep cleaning the bridge rather than attending the Christmas party.” Spock knew before he said it that this group punishment would make him more unpopular than ever. So be it.

  
  
  
“The fur is flying in your science division right now, Jim.” Bones waltzed into Kirk’s office. “Your new Vulcan friend has unleashed his private detective on his bridge officers trying to find out which one or more of them is a disgusting slob who leaves rotting food all over the joint.”

The captain didn’t know if he should ask for clarification or let the doctor go about in his superlative-packed storytelling. At this point, so long as there weren’t any real physical fights, he didn’t think he had much to worry about. “Okay.”

“And to motivate them to come clean, _puny-pun-pun_ , he’s said none of them can go to the party until the guilty fess up. If Sha’leyen beats them to the answer, none of them can go, period.”

“Other than Sha’leyen, who gives less than half a shit about this get-together, how many of these people are upset?”

“Try all of them. A young Ensign Chalmers came in to get an allergy hypo and started bellyaching to one of my nurses. I overheard and thought I might do the world a favor by bringing it right to the top.” The doctor’s demeanor was a cross of amusement and irritation. “Only that copper-blooded Scrooge would punish someone by taking away their Christmas. What a mean bastard.”

  
  
  
Justin, good for his word, called that evening. “I hope you don’t mind that I consulted my son. I thought I needed to do some research because the only experience I have with other men is politely letting them know I’m not interested.”

That was what Spock had thought Justin would do. It was an indication that his older friend was taking this query seriously. “I appreciate that you are willing to gather information so that you may help me.”

“First, I’ll start with something that didn’t occur to me. My boy suggested that you compare facial expressions of other men, gay, straight, or anywhere between, who are trying to chat up potential new partners with what you’ve seen on your captain. Those same men, watch their body language, Tralnor says shoulders are especially indicative because you’re not always going to see hands, legs, and feet.”

“I will take that into consideration.” Spock had not thought of such observations either.

“Can you tell me if he’s a natural flirt? A lot of humans are and they’re not cognizant that they’re doing it. It’s how they make people more comfortable around them and they’re not even looking for a sexual relationship. Call it social lubricant, I suppose.”

Spock called back to how he’d seen Kirk interact with people. A sweet grin, a sparkle in his eye, playful stance, and a sideways glance, before words were taken into account, that was exactly what this captain did. “That does describe him, yes.”

_He is not interested_ , Spock thought. In many ways it was a relief, but in other terms, it only drove home how lonely he was. He had a track record of two previous sexual partners, once with a friend just because, and the other was long-term but not representative of what anyone would call a relationship. He and Mollie were friends who slept together, with friends being all the further things would go for them. And, he didn’t even have that now that Zadie was on the scene.

“As far as I am aware, James Kirk is entirely heterosexual.”

Justin nodded then said, “To build on what my son told me because he mentioned that there are some straight men who are game to try anything once, or they’re horny and don’t care who they get it from, that perhaps Mr. Kirk has some not-necessarily homosexual attraction to you because he’s curious. Again, humans are unpredictable creatures in this regard.”

“I have been propositioned in the past simply because people wanted to see a naked Vulcan, not because they actually wanted intercourse with me. Sex was not the desired outcome, rather visual confirmation or annulment of what they believe someone of my species looks like.”

“Tralnor said that happens to him too. His comment to me was that there are a lot of disappointed people out there who learn that a dick is a dick and when you’ve seen a few, you’ve seen them all.” Coffee, tea, some kind of hot beverage, Justin took a sip. “That kid certainly has a way with words.”

Non-sexual flirting, curiosity about the Vulcan physique, possibly just wanting a one-time fling with an alien, that made more sense than Kirk wanting to “be” with Spock. “Sir, I ask this in a similar vein. There is a member of this crew who does not believe that I do not, nor will I ever, want sex, a relationship, friendship, anything with her that is not a cordial professional acquaintance. How does one discourage that kind of behavior? She is relentless.”

The slight diversion as provided by the _seen them all_ comment evaporated. Justin adopted a grave seriousness. “Be hyper-vigilant, Spock. Don’t worry about hurting her feelings, never let her make or serve you anything to eat or drink, try to never be alone with her, don’t engage in small talk or what you’d consider inconsequential discussion, refuse all invitations, return gifts unopened, don’t answer her calls, don’t answer her messages, don’t do anything that she can construe as positive reinforcement of her borderline criminal behavior.”

Where some would see Justin’s reaction as overkill, perhaps uncivil, the man had ample reason for such a reply. “Remember, all it took was Tralnor setting down his drink for ninety-seconds, and he was drugged and raped by a girl who was very similar to the way you describe this crewmate. You can’t be nice, you can’t be ambivalent, you have to make damned sure that she learns that you are off-limits. She tries something, you toss her out on her ass.”

“Understood.”

“And if she still won’t leave you the hell alone, get security involved. People like this are dangerous. They tend to have personality disorders that preclude them from truly comprehending why what they’re doing is wrong. Cognitive-behavioral conditioning, while it doesn’t begin to address the problem, can in some cases work as a deterrent. If you try to steal the cheese out of a mousetrap enough times and you’re constantly getting your fingers snapped, the association between cheese, the pleasurable outcome you’re looking for, and the pain of a steel spring smashing down on your knuckles will make you question if you really want to stuff your hand in that trap again.” Justin waited on the confirmation that Spock got this information.

“She has convinced herself that I am a virgin in need of help for my condition. She does not believe what is stated in my medical records.”

“Because for human men, it wouldn’t be unheard of for them to lie about having had sex when they haven’t, especially as they get older. Guys are embarrassed, humiliated, and some are angry, that they’ve not had that experience. There are very few out there like your friend Joe.” Justin brought up one of the oddest human beings Spock had ever known. Bergman had ample opportunities with an assortment of potential partners, yet chose to abstain from sex because he was waiting for a specific person. “And even if you were lying, if you’d never had sex, she’d interpret the information the same way she’s doing now, as your virginity, real or not, is a burden she’s taking off your shoulders. Again, don’t do anything she can misconstrue as accommodation on her behalf.”

Spock’s friend was worried for him, fearful that Nurse Chapel’s obnoxious behavior was going to turn into something truly dreadful and that he’d be hurt. “I will be certain to follow your advice, Sir.”

“And if she gives you any shit, tell her she can take it up with your lawyer.”

***

Spock, Tralnor, and Mollie, after a change out of frosting-marred clothes, were led from the music room to the coat closet. Livia was taking them out so they had an opportunity to finish their shopping. This excursion was about finding the right gifts for the important men in their lives. After the discussion they’d finished having, they weren’t in festive moods where they wanted to rejoin the cookie decorating.

Extra layers on, Spock was ready to finish this gift business. Choosing something for his mother had been easy. Finding a present that would appeal to his father and not closely mimic or duplicate any of the massive amounts of stuff he received as tokens of goodwill as part of his job was a challenge.

Rather than return downtown, they went off to an enclosed shopping complex. Livia started them off in a department store. None of the clothing was appropriate, the shoes were all in styles Justin and Sarek did not or could not wear. Perfumes and other toiletries were out as the smell made all three children feel sick. Free from that store, they wandered around in the rest of the building, drifting in and out of retailers, waiting for the right item to catch their eye.

Tralnor stayed as close to his aunt as possible. He did not want anyone who wasn’t related to him to touch him. Mollie was on guard for her brother and Spock found himself running interference for him as well. Spock didn’t think the younger boy should have to hide away because other people refused to mind their manners. It was then that Justin’s words from that afternoon re-entered his mind. Helping Mollie to keep Tralnor safe, that was the kind of support he’d talked about. Look out for one another.

One shop was peddling sports memorabilia. Livia directed them in there. She’d decided her brother needed a huge, wood-handled, USC branded, steel spatula that was designed to flip pieces of meat over on grills or barbecues. Size-wise, it rivaled the pizza paddle used to scoop cookie dough out of Big Momma's mixing bowl. Livia was gauging the feel of it, noting how awkward it was.

“Mother, why would you get Uncle a tool for cooking meat?” Mollie wasn’t the only one confused by this choice of gift. “He doesn’t eat meat, none of us do.”

“I’m getting it because I think it's funny. Justin will find it hilarious.” Livia smiled, showing what a much lighter-hearted Mollie might look like as a grown woman.

“There’s humor in large useless objects?” She was not grasping the concept.

“Knowing my brother, he’ll find some use for it. I can see him turning it into a boat oar.”

Mollie’s brow wrinkled and her head pulled back. “There are no boats on Vulcan.”

“And that’s the point, Pi’ek’zer.” Livia called Mollie a little gem, something Spock found a good fit for his friend. “Let me pay for this and we’ll move on to the next place.”

The three of them stayed close to the spatula display. While they talked about the lack of merit in truly useless gifts, Spock felt like they were being watched. Ready to look for the source, this person, another child, asked him something.

“Where did you get your ears?” A blond-haired human boy appeared to have come from behind a rack of shirts.

“My ears?” Spock hadn’t a clue what the kid wanted to know.

“Yeah, your ears. Where did you buy them?” Friendly, the boy smiled. “I want some just like that.”

“I did not buy them.”

Visibly disappointed, this human re-phrased his question. “So if you didn’t buy them, where did they come from?”

“I am a Vulcan. I was born with them.” This was probably where this meeting would derail.

“ _For real_?” Enthusiasm was entirely unexpected. “We’re learning about Vulcans in school right now. My friend, Carter, says it's hot enough there that you can fry an egg on the sidewalk. Is that true?”

“Cooking food on a walkway cannot be safe for whoever is eating it.” Tralnor, who’d weathered the spatula explanation, was mystified about this question.

“Your little brother is funny.” The boy said to Spock.

Mollie spoke, “During the hottest part of the day, I think you probably could coagulate albumin using only the sun-warmed sidewalk as a heat source.”

“I don’t know what you just said—”

“Johnny, let’s go.” A woman who was probably the boy’s mother came up. “You can talk to your school friends later.”

“But, Mom, they’re _Vulcans_.”

“And I’m _hungry_. I want to get some dinner while the China Buffet is still open.”

Quick to join his mother, Johnny waved. “Bye. Merry Christmas!”

“Do you know who that was?” Spock couldn’t begin to know.

“All he wanted was to stay and learn more about us.” Tralnor said. “He wasn’t scared or mean or anything.”

“I don’t know him.” Mollie replied. “I’m just glad he didn’t want to get into a fight or say bad things about us.”

Livia returned, purchase in a paper bag carried by a set of handles. “I was talking to the clerk and she says there’s a stationery shop on the top level. I think we might find what we need up there.”

Spock could almost say that he found what he needed right here: two friends who had his back and proof that not all human children, save the MacCormack relations, were murderous little fiends.


	7. Chapter 7

The door chime sounded and Spock glanced in that direction, wondering who it was. “Your counsel is much appreciated, Sir.”

Another ring. “Anytime for anything, Spock.”

And another.

“I should let you get that. Have a good evening.”

“You as well.” The line went dark and the science officer got up to tend to this person who wanted his attention.

James T. Kirk was not flirting right now. He was upset at a level where Spock didn’t want the captain in his personal space. Eyes of amber-green, the human showed a storm brewing on the inside. “What’s this about you taking Christmas away from your junior officers?”

“I am not taking the day anywhere on anyone’s behalf.”

“And you’ve sent Lt. Commander Sha’leyen to treat your station like a crime scene?”

Spock, on the defensive, said, “Is it not within my prevue to handle disciplinary problems inside my own division?”

“Yes, yes it is, but I think maybe the way you handled things was a bit ruthless?”

This was now a conversation not to be had in the hallway. Spock let the captain in, asked if he wanted some tea, and got the kettle going. “In their refusal to carry out my request, that those who made the mess admit to their actions, I chose a motivator I believed would spur the most action.”

“So you don’t think you’re being punitive?” Tonight there was no flirting. This was the captain, on task, trying to keep a personnel meltdown from coming to a head.

“I do not.” As he’d done previously, Spock got the water poured and the tea steeping. “You appear to believe that I have overreacted to the situation.”

“Well. . . Spock, it’s Christmas. Make them scrub the decks with toothbrushes, make them do wind sprints, make them break down, clean, and sterilize the science station before the end of each shift, something that doesn’t cancel their holiday.”

“Are you overriding my directive, Sir?” Tea served they sat down and kept up with their talk.

A gentle shake of his head and Kirk said, “No, Spock, I’m not. I don’t want to second-guess you then overreach into your kingdom. That makes us both look like dicks. Let’s avoid that.”

Deciding it best to take Kirk’s alternative punishment idea into consideration, he informed the captain that he would think about possibly changing his drive to a confession or confirmation. “They have until Sha’leyen returns the results of her tests to me. After that, I will be instituting a strict checklist of what can and cannot be consumed at the science station.”

“That’s good, Spock. That’s a start.” As a reward for that possible capitulation, Kirk let that smile come out.

 _He’s not interested_ , Spock reminded himself.

“Sometimes we’ve got to make some compromises. . .” The light in his eyes, why couldn’t more be there?

Spock let the captain talk about leadership skills while engaging a part of his mind into seeking out a memory. _How long has it been since I have voluntarily touched another person outside of a professional capacity_? Even though this man was not a potential romance, Spock wondered what it would be like if their hands met and he could catch a glancing wisp of the captain’s mind to pair with the sensory input of skin on skin?

***

Up in the music room, right after breakfast, the kids listened to Grandma Nora, Livia, and Theresa talk about the physiology of psionic brains, how they worked, and why. The part Spock found this particularly fascinating was learning how throughout human history, even as human psions were hunted down and nearly driven to extinction, that there were others who’d lie about having such talents and use their false sixth sense to fleece unsuspecting people. He supposed the Vulcan equivalent to that would be if a person claimed they were a hyper-empath, copied Tralnor’s behavior, and used the fear the younger boy spoke of yesterday as a method of duping the public. Not that Spock believed such a thing could happen on Vulcan.

The most telling way to sort a genuine psion from a con-artist was not to have another verified telepath or empath read them for signs of weaving fictitious attributes into their lives. One could argue that introduced bias against these so-called “differently-abled” psions. A scanning electromagnetic encephalograph, being a machine, did not have a hidden agenda. A psion’s brain, even a latent psion’s brain, fired off in different ways than a normal, quiet mind. The practitioner operating the scanner didn’t need to have the fakers pretend to use their minds, a bland conversation about beige paint stirred up enough brain activity to show how it was wired.

Vulcans and human psions had remarkably similar brains on a structural and neurochemical level. Seeing archived images and video clips of what the three physicians were talking about made all the descriptions more memorable.

“On these two scans, there is absolutely no identifying information.” Theresa showed stills, ran a twenty-second video, and asked, “Which one of these belongs to the Vulcan who so kindly volunteered to let us run him through the wringer?”

(She means Sula.) Mollie said and Spock thought of how his own head would look, a kaleidoscope of colors representing the neural response to her voice sounding only inside his head.

“Martin?” Theresa pointed at her nephew.

“The one on the left?” He wasn’t certain of this answer and barely had enough evidence to build his claim on. As he went through the why he chose that side, Livia stepping in to ask the clarifying questions, Martin capitulated. He didn’t know if he was wrong, but he knew why the way he made his conclusion was fatally flawed. He’d have been better off saying he simply felt that the left was what they were looking for than trying to build a logical argument for something that could not be codified.

A hand up, Tabitha gave it a try. “I’m also going to say the left and the reason why is because of the additional frontal lobe activity. Vulcans have to work harder for longer to achieve true emotional control and that control is built up and executed through the decision-making centers found in that part of the brain.”

“That is correct, Tabitha.”

“I knew I couldn’t put my thumb on it.” Martin followed. “There was just something about the left one that caught my attention.”

“Is Martin’s response to your question an example of the vague concept of human intuition?” Spock sought his own edification.

***

Kirk was having a hell of a time trying to convince Spock that he was going about this whole disciplinary thing the wrong way. This was made all the harder by having it tie back into the Christmas party. Jim almost asked if that was connected to Spock’s refusal to attend? Maybe he wanted some company on a long December night?

“Again, I’m not trying to step on your balls here—” _Whoops, that was the wrong thing to say, Jimmy_. Full-brow, head-tilt, chin-jut, that series of expressions in rapid succession was Spock’s way of asking someone if they were a fucking idiot. _Tonight, I am that idiot_ , the captain’s thought went on.

Hands up, fingers splayed, in a very human don’t-kill-me-I’m-just-the-piano-player manner, Kirk said, “Not literally, I mean. . . I’d never do that to you, for real, besides, I don’t even know if it’s physically possible to do that to a Vulcan.”

An old expression of Sam’s danced through Jim’s head: _Fuck me sideways with a pitchfork_. What didn’t seem to happen was Spock taking offense to the bungling garbage he’d spouted off. _Jimmy, you've got to think before you open your mouth around someone like this_.

A blink, minimal eye movement, the Vulcan seem his usual chilly self. “It is my experience that humans will find a way to accomplish anything they set out to do, no matter how difficult or bizarre. Therefore, one must assume that it is indeed possible for you to tread—”

“ _No_! Say no more.” Where was a nice hole to hide in when you needed one? “I suppose the most condensed way to put this is I get the feeling that if you follow through on this cancelling Christmas plot that your guys are going to think you’re a sadist.”

“That would be a massive misconception on their part. I do not derive hedonistic pleasure from anyone’s pain.” That comment, it got to him. “I am not attempting to behave in a cruel manner. As a commanding officer, I am simply doing my job.”

“I know that, you know that, but these young officers are still pretty new to this. My gut says that if you don’t want to find morale sinking, you’ve got to approach this differently.” He tried to ply the Vulcan with a smile. This was so not working. “How about a totally different topic?”

“What would you suggest?”

In this light, which was adjusted ever so slightly to a different part of the spectrum, there was a purplish tinge on the skin above Spock’s eyelids. Kirk thought he’d seen it before on the bridge when the alert system transitioned in and out of yellow. Once, he’d thought it was some kind of makeup, but that couldn’t have been the case. No, this was some natural affectation. “Let’s just ask some quick questions and see if we can’t get to know one another a little better.”

“Do not be offended, Sir, if I refuse to respond to certain inquiries. There are simply some details that Vulcans do not share outside of our own kind.”

“Fair enough.” Tea cool enough for a human to drink, Kirk took a sip. “Which of us is more irritating, me or Bones?”

“Dr. McCoy.” No elaboration offered, he said it and it was done.

“That was fast. Ask me something. We’ll switch off.”

“Was it your intention to enter the Command Track when you matriculated into Starfleet Academy?” It didn’t seem like this was an answer Spock was burning to hear, but he was going along with what his dippy captain suggested.

“Um, I originally wanted to, and don’t laugh. . .”

Brow, again. “I do not laugh.”

“I was ready to go, whole hog, into cartography. I thought that all I wanted to do was plot the stars. In the most simplistic terms, it’s what I do for a living, but I felt like I could contribute more to Starfleet if my involvement was in shepherding the people, guiding the ship, that took a whole team of mapmakers out to record parts unknown.” That wasn’t a great explanation, and he left a lot of heavy details out. Spock didn’t need to hear that part of why he decided to aim for flying the center seat was that it distracted him from the pain and disappointment in his personal life. A son, two ex-fiancees, a trail of bruised and broken hearts, his own included, and he felt like he needed to keep moving so none of the fallout settled on his shoulders. “What do your parents do for a living?”

In what should have offered some insight into how he was formed, Spock issued a terse reply. “My mother is a teacher and my father works for Vulcan’s government.”

“And that’s all I’m going to get on that, isn’t it?”

“You are correct.” The pecan shortbread came out again. “What is your preferred leisure activity?”

“Hold onto your hat—I know, you’re not wearing a hat—because chasing skirts is not the answer.” That seemed to come as a surprise. “I’ve got the reputation, which is mostly true, but my favorite thing to do off duty, away from the world, is read. Lame, huh?”

“It is not the first thing I would associate with you, though it is appropriate considering your previous accomplishments.”

“Um, is there a girlfriend back home?”

“No, there is not.”

Jim’s next impulse was to blurt out his curiosity if there was a boyfriend at home instead. All he needed was a few more details to build out a less skeletal perception of this man he had to spend years with. This was like getting married sight unseen and trying to figure out if he was the one stuck on the couch for eternity.

“I will ask you the same, are you attached and the union not mentioned in your files?”

Slender fingers, olivine tinged nail beds, Kirk watched Spock’s hands, just his hands, and liked noticing all of the tiny differences between this person and human men. “Nope, I’m single the last time I checked. I’ve never been married, so there aren’t any future rants about who got the dog and how much I’m paying in alimony. Consider yourself lucky. Bones still goes off three or four times a week about the former Mrs. McCoy. Don’t get him started on the subject. If you think he’s bad about topics that interest you, this one is best avoided like a cauldron of rotten fish.”

“I shall remember that, Sir.” That was something he’d find useful. The fewer ways to accidentally set the doctor off, the happier all parties were.

“Now, if you want to generally antagonize him, as you do for fun—”

“If I was the kind of person who sought out people and activities for ‘fun,’ harassing Dr. McCoy would not be in my prerogative.”

“You may not be having much fun, but I am. He’s spent all day bitching about that book. It’s been amusing, to say the least.” Jim took one of the cookies, thought about how Bones would try to slap it out of his hand, and enjoyed the mouthful all the more.

***

“What that means is the human contributors to Lyr Saan genetics were the most psionically active individuals the Ancient Golic Slave-hunters could find.” Livia said as more interest arose in the lesson.

Spock was still mulling over the physiological explanation of a gut feeling, and it was quite literally a _feeling_. The human digestive tract had its own nearly independent nervous system that worked in concert with the gut’s microbiome to issue, most frequently, the fight or flight response. Non-psionic humans were incapable of influencing the neurological component of these reactions but could hone their ability to interpret what these signals communicated to the brain. Gut feeling was a leftover from the days when primitive humans were as likely to end up as some giant animal’s lunch as finding food for themselves. As such, they learned to listen when this autonomic visceral network warned they were about to become dinner.

This feeling grew more accurate the healthier the balance of bacteria in the intestines became.

This secondary nervous system tapped directly into a person’s emotional state. It was designed to make immediate, life-saving reactions, and therefore didn’t need to present a honed and reasoned case as to why and how something must be done. The gut was incapable of true thought no matter how tightly entwined it was with one’s white matter and as such was not trusted to consistently make rational decisions.

***

Spock and the captain drifted away from the Q-and-A format when Kirk brought up “the little voice” in the back of his head. The science officer explained how and why the process worked, leaving Kirk somewhat dejected.

“So, you’re saying that the yogurt I had for breakfast last week is talking to me?”

 _Please let that be a bad attempt at humor_ , Spock thought. _I was certain this man was more intelligent than that_.

“I know that’s not what you meant, Spock.” The twinkle built back up in his eyes. “And that was a very Bones thing for me to say. I get it. It’s a Sabre Tooth Tiger Alarm that’s hardwired into human bodies that we’ve channeled or maladapted into something that’s still at work today. It’s probably somewhere between instinct and psionics and now I know why I get butterflies in my stomach when it happens.”

Spock bussed their empty teacups off the desk and turned around to see Kirk examining Nora’s invitation. “This is expensive stationery. Just what kind of _Fishmas_ party are they hosting at this Big House?”

“It is a fancy dress event and people match the theme. I do not know that there is anything about it that sets it much apart from any other party of this kind, the exception being the people attending.” He’d keep it to himself that if physical location was not an issue and he had to choose between celebrations, he would be trying to figure out what to wear that made him look like something nautical.

“This Nora, she didn’t want to write your card out in standard?” Kirk flashed the inside to Spock and wrinkled his lip up when he knew he’d not be able to decipher it.

“She writes all of her correspondence to me in Modern Golic.” She knew how much some little details meant.

“So, she knows your language?” The captain was captivated by what he saw. Scribed with a fountain pen, Vulcan’s designated writing system of work, school, government, and most of daily life, probably didn’t look like anything recognizable.

“She knows my language.” He confirmed.

“What does it say? Well, let’s start at how does this get read? Up-down, side-to-side, on the diagonal?”

“From the top of the page downward, left to right. Almost every character is a phoneme, making it a much easier system to use for mundane things. Formal calligraphy takes a well-practiced hand and is best left to the Scribes.” Spock revised his thought from earlier about the captain lacking intelligence. Someone who wasn’t smart and uninterested in learning would not be trying to unlock the secrets of an invitation.

“Is this your name?”

“It is.”

“I don’t know why it comes as a surprise that Vulcans don’t stick completely to standard when they’re off-world. See, that’s me being an ignorant human. Tell me more.”

  
  
  
“Are we looking at a looming mutiny, Jim?” Bones was going to mutiny if he couldn’t get that gift figured out.

“I hope not.” Kirk had wandered straight from Spock’s over to the doctor’s. “I think I’ve got him talked down from cancelling Christmas.”

“Let me guess, he doesn’t think he’s being an asshole, not even a little bit, because that would be illogical?” Smirky, Bones got up, pulled out a drawer, and tossed something at the captain.

Items caught, he looked at the soon-to-be infamous socks. “You weren’t kidding when you said tacos, cows, and fishing. I wouldn’t let you bury me in a pair of these.”

“Then they’re _perfect_. He’s getting that much at least.” McCoy collected the accessories and set them on his desk in front of a photo of the original misguided gift-giver. A pre-teen Joanna McCoy smiled widely as she hugged on her dad. At least the doctor had gotten some of those moments in his life, regardless of how hard the relationship with his wife had fallen apart. “What’s got you all melancholy?”

“It’s the time of year, Bones. All these holidays are supposed to be about family. Here you and I are, our kids basically don’t know who we are, their mothers think we’re overgrown children, and I’m just speaking for me here, but I get a little heartbroken when it hits me that I’ve never played Santa, or read _The Night Before Christmas_ , or sang _Rudolf_ with my boy and I know I never will.”

“Some of the sacrifices we make to give a better future to them.” The doctor always knew when to come out with something that was both straightforward and profound.

Deciding it was for the best that he not slip into an end-of-year depression, Jim discussed his latest meeting with the science officer, placing less emphasis on the bridge station incident. “Did you know he’s a musician? A pretty good one from what I gathered.”

“I know now. Music?”

“Yeah, he wouldn’t play for me tonight even after I made an ass of myself begging, but he told me about some of the awards he’s won over the years.”

“ _Music_?”

“That’s what I said.” This was going somewhere and Jim didn’t know if it would constructive or mischievous.

“I think you might have just saved my ass on this present thing. The Industrial Revolution is stretching my resources to the maximum, but music is something I think even a good old boy like me can figure out.”

“Glad to have made your day.”

“Music!” Bones smiled like he’d won the lottery.

***

At the conclusion of their morning of neuropsionics, the afternoon was spent studying trigonometry and how music and mathematics intersected in more than one way. By keeping the children interested in learning, the day went quickly, and there were no incidents because boredom took over and got people in trouble.

In the minutes before they broke for the day, Justin entered the room, garment bags draped over an arm. “Do you mind if I steal my three?”

“Mollie, Tralnor, Spock, Justin needs you.” Grandma Nora sent them off.

“While I was up in the city today, I picked up a few things that you needed, Spock especially.” They stepped off into a smaller, less-trafficked lounge than the music room. Justin peeled back the bag on one of the hangers. “I just hope they fit.”

Spock accepted the new set of formal robes. They were exquisitely constructed and made of heavier, warmer fabric than any he had at home. The material had a pleasant feel to it, soft and smooth.

“You two go try these on and come back and I’ll see how well they work and if we’ve got to do any quick alterations. I’ll be in here putting Tralnor into his getup.” Justin handed off Mollie’s new clothes.

Out on the sleeping porch, they swapped out of their regular wardrobe and inspected one another. There were minor differences between the two of them. Metallic writing in Modern Golic script let everyone know which family and clan they belonged to. His were black and hers were a shade of plum that was almost black and could be mistaken for such if viewed at a distance. Mollie’s also sported a strip of Clan MacCormack’s tartan integrated into the front of the left shoulder.

“This makes me feel kind of normal. I’ve never thought about how what we wear says who we are.” Mollie said. “And I like that they’re warm.”

“I agree.” They walked over to the full-length mirror in the bathroom next door. “We look like ourselves again.”

“Even if it’s only for the community dinner tonight.”

“Let’s show your uncle.”

Justin had Tralnor in a dress kilt. What set it apart from the others Spock had seen was the Golic script on the left lapel. The outfit was a seamless amalgamation of the boy’s dual heritage. His waistcoat was the same plum as Mollie’s robes and the pin that weighed the hem of the tartan down was designed in the style of a Temple Kotekru Kaylara ceremonial dagger.

“All you need is your Ghillie brogues and you’re ready to go.” Mollie canted her head. “Well, maybe some tights so you don’t get cold. . .”

Tralnor’s father was rustling through an old wicker sewing basket. “It’s a tradition that we overdress for this event. I don’t want any of you thinking that you’re not in the right clothes because you are. It’s another demonstration of living well despite those who’d rather see you drown.”

Needle strung with a length of black thread, Justin went to Spock and started on a quick tack-down of the tops and backs of the shoulders where the robes were designed to allow for the outfit to grow with a child. “There will be a lot of people at the dinner who will be happy to see us, old friends of ours, folks we went to school with and the like. There will be the ones who don’t care that a herd of psions has descended upon them. Last, there’s going to be a contingent of assholes who will delight in giving you a hard time. Don’t go off by yourselves and make it a habit to avoid the troublemakers when you’ve figured out who they are.”

“Yes, Sir.” Tralnor said, followed by the other two.

“There is going to be a carving station, so you’re going to have to simply accept that people will be eating meat. Most likely it’s going to be turkey, ham, and roast beef. Sometimes the turkeys are broken down and other years they’re carved whole. Just try not to look at it.” Justin switched to the other shoulder.

“ _What’s a turkey_?” Tralnor had probably never heard the word before.

“You know the chickens we have for laying eggs?” Two stitches in, Justin paused to rearrange the fabric.

“I like the chickens. They let me pet them.” When Tralnor was sent out with other kids to collect the eggs, the little boy made the task easier because the hens all wanted to see what he was doing and get a little affection from someone they sensed was looking out for them.

“They’ll come out of the trees and out from under the porch just to say hello to you.” Mollie liked the chickens too.

“A turkey is something like a chicken, only much larger. They can get up to fifteen kilos. I personally don’t know how anyone can eat them, let alone like doing so. The meat is sweet, mushy, and smells like rot, and I know what it tastes like because sometimes its demanded of you to eat what you’re served as a guest, especially in public situations.”

Spock understood that pressure. Aunt Shelby thought he was belligerent and persnickety, refusing to accept that he didn’t eat certain things because of his cultural background. He thought about the silly orange-brown, black and white striped, and white birds whose infertile eggs were consumed but couldn’t rectify why you would then take that creature and kill it just so you could eat its muscle tissue.

“You won’t be expected to eat any of it. I’m going to guide you three through the food line so you don’t accidentally wind up with giblet dressing, brown gravy, or gelatin on your plates.” Thread snipped, Justin was done.

“I don’t want to eat the chickens.” Tralnor said. “They’re happy and friendly.”

Justin switched over to Mollie where he started to perform the same alteration. “I promise there won’t be a repeat of the haggis situation.”

Mollie pulled a face, bearing her teeth and twitching her lips at the mention of haggis. The word still made Spock queasy. Two years ago, when they’d been in Scotland, everyone at the party that celebrated the coming together of Clan Lyr Saan and Clan MacCormack, got together and took a bite of the vilest substance Spock had ever placed in his mouth, and that included yesterday’s supplement tablet. It had taken every gram of control he could muster to not throw up in that ballroom full of people.

“Now that I’ve gotten the food sort-of explained, there will be live music, dancing, fair games, a raffle for some big prizes, a dessert auction, hayrides, and a Santa.” One final stitch. “You’re going to see all of the other kids climb up on his lap and tell him what they want for Christmas. You don’t have to make physical contact. A photographer will get your picture with him and then one of his helpers will give you a small gift. Open it there or wait for Christmas morning. It’s up to you.”

“There are gifts from people who do not know us?” Spock didn’t know if he was actually asking a question or speaking to himself.

“They’ll be pretty nondescript, something meant to appeal to a mass audience. Bubbles, toy cars, small stuffed animals, stickers, you’ll see.”

Completely intrigued, Spock found himself looking forward to the dinner.

***

Spock lingered in the shadows while his bridge officers reconvened for a continuation of yesterday’s meeting. Ensign Chalmers was running his mouth to Lt. Hayward.

“I _hate_ working for this guy. Nothing I do is ever good enough for him. I’m not some Vulcan automaton who exists only to work and never have any fun.” Chalmers sounded more put out than usual. “I still can’t believe he has an actual detective digging up dirt on us. You know, I heard that Lt. Commander Sha’leyen worked homicide. A _hom-i-cide_ detective is trying to figure this out because the boss is such a fucking dick.”

“She was a homicide detective in London. I think it would be a great job.” Hayward’s squeaky voice resonated even after she went into the conference room. “And I think you’re being too rigid about Mr. Spock. If people like you weren’t disgusting pigs, none of us would be where we are now.”

Sha’leyen arrived and said so softly that only a Vulcan could hear, “I have your results and they’re what you would expect them to be.”

“Your work is appreciated.” He went into the room after her and examined the crestfallen bridge officers. The message the captain’s gut feeling conveyed last night burst fresh into his head. Doleful bridge crew were not entirely invested in doing their jobs because their minds were partially elsewhere. Combine that with Kirk’s expectation that these people would find him more irksome than they did on a typical day.

He addressed his people. “This is your final opportunity to divulge who is neglecting a piece of equipment that is absolutely essential to the function of this ship. The Lt. Commander has run her tests. Speak now and do not drag your colleagues down with you.”

Like yesterday, the silence began. Sha’leyen handed a data padd off to him. Perhaps it was something about making the motion to turn the tiny machine on that sprang Hayward into action.

“It’s Chalmers, Sir. He’s a slob and he’s proud of it.”

Slight nods and grunts of agreement offered confirmation of her claim. An aggressive half-grin tugged at the left side of Chalmers’ face. “ _Sellouts, all of you_.”

Spock powered up the data padd. “Lt. Hayward, scientific analysis backs your statement. Only one of you is missing the party.”

Chalmers tried not to huff like a spoiled toddler and only half-succeeded. He knew better than to cut loose as he had before the meeting kicked off or how he’d gone and cried to the nurses in sick bay yesterday afternoon. He wasn’t saying anything and wasn’t looking his superior’s way. When everyone but Chalmers was dismissed the young ensign became animated.

“I don’t have to put up with this shit. You’re the one who created a hostile work environment and its against regs to let us starve.”

“I see you have put in for a transfer.” Spock didn’t let this sputtering fool get to him.

“A transfer? I haven’t—” Jaw falling open, Chalmers impersonated a fish out of water before his brain and mouth would act in concert. “ _Are you fucking with me_?”

“Beginning immediately, you are on administrative leave. In three days, a personnel shuttle is bringing in some fresh able seamen and you will leave on said shuttle. Be certain to take all of your personal belongings with you as you will not be returning to the Enterprise.”

“I’m filing a grievance with Command about this.” He thought he’d intimidate the most unflappable member of the crew. It didn’t work. “You can’t screw me over.”

“Might I also suggest that you invest in a bar of soap.”

“ _Soooo funny_. Why, so I can scrub down the consoles?” Eyes rolling the Ensign’s insubordination might have been comical if it weren’t part of watching someone implode their own career.

“So you can put it in your mouth.”

Chalmers had to stop and think if he actually heard what he thought he did. “What is wrong with you?”

“Are you going to your quarters in a complacent matter, Mr. Chalmers, or do I need to request a security escort?” Done with the matter, Spock had business to attend to out on the bridge.

***

The rumble was not anything Spock could place. It was precisely timed, something that kept even intervals between the peaks and troughs. The closest thing he could compare it to was the sound Big Momma made as she turned raw ingredients into cookie dough. On the other side of the front door, there was a machine of some variety and that’s all the further he could go on identifying it.

Everyone was working on getting their coats and jackets on as to begin the mass migration into town. There were more family members on hand now than earlier in the day. Several more of the adults of Justin and Livia’s generation had descended on the Big House that afternoon. Marty, Jason, and John’s dad, Justin’s twin brother, Miles had made it back from a business trip. Cousins that Spock might have met in passing two years ago in Scotland were welcomed with open arms and laughter.

Miles approached smile on a face that declared he and Justin were fraternal, rather than identical, twins. They still looked strikingly similar. “Hello, Brother. Good to see you again.”

“You too.” Justin got Tralnor disentangled from a wool scarf and sent the boy out to the car where T’Lal was waiting.

“Who is this fine young gentleman?” Miles referred to Spock. “I’ve already made the acquaintance of our lovely Miss Mollie.”

“Hello, Uncle Miles.” She said.

Justin made the introduction, giving Spock’s full name and the names of his parents. Miles nodded. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Spock.”

“It is good to meet you as well, Sir.” He replied.

“Well, Brother, you’d best get out there to your wife before tears off and leaves you because she doesn’t like sitting still in that thing.” Miles turned and moved off to collect a hug from an auntie.

“Miles is right. T’Lal will leave us in the dust if we don’t hurry.”

Down off the porch, Spock met up with the source of the rumble. Justin opened the passenger door on a red antique vehicle bearing a stamped metal panel tacked to the front. He had no idea what CALIFORNIA 67PONY meant.

People started to gather around the wheeled machine, complimenting T’Lal on its completion. Someone said, “What, it only took eleven years to take this from a rusted out hunk of pig iron to a piece of perfection?”

Justin got Mollie and Tralnor in the back seat first before addressing the query. “Almost twelve. Finding and or fabricating the parts, that’s what took forever. Sourcing the sheet metal was about the only easy thing she found. Then she had to fabricate the panels that couldn’t be rescued, which was most of them. Working those tramp freighters in her younger years gave her skills that made this possible.”

“Yeah, I can see how being in the lanes on rickety cargo ships held together with twine and bubblegum could teach you a lot about keeping machines running for decades past their useful lifespans.” Miles had come over to take a look. “She’s beautiful. The car’s not half bad either.”

“You better hope she didn’t hear that.” Justin grinned and got on settling Spock on the rear bench seat, a single lap belt pulled taut as a safety restraint.

“Tell her she knocked it out of the park. This thing’s been a labor of love and it came out gorgeous.” Miles patted Justin on the shoulder and got his boys and their mother rounded up and in his dull but functional executive-mobile.

The vibration the vehicle put out was sonorous, almost musical, and couple with that throaty burble, the sound had a soothing quality to it that Spock was not expecting. He heard metal moving against metal, the process of getting the car to move forward was entirely manual. He stated what to him was a true revelation. “There is no computer.”

“The 1967 Ford Mustang was an internal combustion-powered passenger vehicle that when new did not have any computerized components.” T’Lal’s feet were heard moving, operating something the boy couldn’t see from his vantage in the back. “I chose to make my restoration as near to the original as I could, therefore, I did not integrate any modern systems into it. The only modifications I did choose would have been modern at the time this car was manufactured. All four wheels now have disc brakes and the electrical system is no longer dependent on a fuse box and the alternator was replaced with an integrated—”

“T’Lal, you’re confusing the kid. Not everyone has your knowledge of Detroit metal.” Justin craned his head where he could see the kids. “This car is more closely related to Big Momma than any of the other vehicles in the driveway.”

“And that is what makes it exhilarating.” T’Lal turned left onto Old Highway 99 and made the machine sound as though it roared.

  
  
  
The event space for the dinner was the Turlock High School gymnasium. Waxed and polished wooden floors were protected by thin interlocking mats that kept shoes and the grit on them from damaging the playing surface. After a stop at the coat check, Justin gave them a short tour of the building, explaining how he’d been a student there in his teen years.

They found his name engraved on some trophy plaques, saw him dressed in a basketball uniform with the rest of his divisional championship team. Deputy Texiera was there too. This walk-around was done as they waited for more of the family to arrive. T’Lal was still out in the car park showing off her recently finished restoration.

One area hosted a craft market, where locals sold baked goods, Christmas decor, homemade clothing, art, and other assorted items. People, most of whom had not seen him in years, came up to Justin to say hello and inquire as to how he’d been doing since he’d burned his passport those years back.

“This is the one that got away.” A woman with blond hair and grey eyes approached, two of her friends in tow.

“Deena March, it’s been a long time.” He exchanged a friendly hug with her.

“Too long. I heard you were going to be here tonight and knew I just had to see you.” She tried to smile like the situation was completely normal but seemed more like she was clenching her jaw to stave off a toothache. Then, she looked at his left hand, spying his Llangalon emerald-inlaid wedding band. “Running you off was one of the dumbest things I’ve ever done. If I could go back and throttle my eighteen-year-old self, I would, even if it was only so I could apologize for being such a jerk.”

“Water under the bridge.” Justin harbored no ill-will toward this person.

“I’m glad to hear you say that.” Deena said. “ _I was horrible to you_.”

“I don’t see my wife anywhere yet.” Justin moved the conversation along, not wanting to publicly dissect a long-dead relationship. “But, I’ll make these introductions. This is my son, Tralnor.”

A cast of sad regret whispered through Deena’s eyes. “Hi, Tralnor. I used to go to this school with your dad.”

“My niece, Livia’s daughter, Mollie.”

“I love hearing that Livia has a little girl. I always thought she’d make a great mom.” Voice faltering, she tried for another forced smile.

“And this is the son of dear family friends, Spock. This is his very first Christmas.”

Deena went through the niceties of a socially acceptable response to Justin, his family, and his life without her in it. As she and her friends walked away, Tralnor said, “She’s gone off to the bathroom so you don’t have to see her cry.”

Justin turned and crouched down so he was level with the kids, bare knee touching the cold linoleum floor, kilt hem brushing the ground. “You know how over the past few days that I’ve been talking about living well, repeating the sentiment over and over?”

“Yes, Sir.” The three of them said in concert.

“Deena is one of those people who needed to see that in action. She will hurt for a while. However, as someone who went out of her way to loudly insult and shame me for being a psion as part of her plan to not have to carry on a long-distance relationship when we went off to our respective universities, I’ve not held a grudge even though I’d certainly be justified in doing so in light of her actions.”

“What did she do, Uncle?” Mollie wondered. “If this happened many years ago and she is still having such a strong emotional reaction to what she did, it can’t be very good.”

“It wasn’t. I’ll give you the details when you’re older and able to understand the implications. For now, kan-lar t’nash-vey, live well. That’s all you need to know.”

  
  
  
“Carter!” Johnny, from the sporting good store, was at this dinner. He charged over to the Vulcan children. “Carter, it’s the kids I told you about. _See, they are too real_.”

“I don’t know, Johnny. You were at the mall. Was it elves?” Carter arrived and stood, slack-jawed. He whispered, “ _Vulcans_. . .”

“I told you, Carter.”

Justin pointed out a clock on the wall, gave Spock, Mollie, and Tralnor a time to meet him so they could eat, and stepped out to save his wife from the crowd drooling over her car.

“Let’s go to the midway.” Johnny’s enthusiasm was infectious. “It’s not like the real one at the Stanislaus County Fair, but the big kids do it and it’s a lot of fun.”

“We’ll win all the prizes.” Carter smiled. “I want the big fuzzy dog.”

The three from ShiKahr had a quick, quiet conversation. Spock starting with, (Should we trust them?)

(Tralnor?) Mollie left the decision up to the hyper-empath.

(All they want is to make friends.) Tralnor stepped off after Johnny and Carter. (Let’s go.)

***

A new message showed up in Kirk’s queue. Bones was persistent. _Jim, what kind of music is Spock interested in? I’m gonna guess it’s not Dixieland or yodeling, but what else_?

 _Don’t know_. Kirk replied.

Less than a minute later, Jim could see the exasperation on the physician’s face, mouth pulled into a flat line, one eye slightly crossed. _Can you ask_?

 _And have him tell me he’s interested in the obscure folk music of Bosnian immigrants to New York City at the height of the Industrial Revolution_? _Make your best guess_. Kirk granted himself an entertained smirk.

 _I hate you sometimes_.

 _Thanks for the vote of confidence, Bones. That’s what I like to hear from my crew_.

McCoy’s final retort was, _Why, I ought to_ —

 _Insert obscenity here_ , Jim thought. Maybe if Spock was on the bridge right now, he’d think about bringing up music. The science officer was still off trying to keep his division from erupting into a coup. Honestly, Kirk didn’t know if he should keep doing McCoy’s dirty work or let the doctor figure this out on his own. 

A new message shot to the head of the queue. Ready to tell Bones that a panicking freak-out on his end about a Christmas present wasn’t an emergency for Jim, he was glad he stopped to read the note before firing off a sarcastic reply.

 _Captain, Ensign Corey Chalmers is transferring off the Enterprise, effective immediately. That will put an end to the health hazard he is creating and remove someone who only appears capable of cutting other people down. I have tried to remedy his poor attitude and lax work ethic since we left earth spacedock. Ensign Chalmers has no intention of bettering himself or this crew and is incapable of living by the Enterprise’s mission. All other personnel are free to attend your party_.

 _Hell, yeah_. Jim was glad to see that Spock had come around on the canceling Christmas idea. That would have been bad.

“Captain, incoming from Admiral Holt.” Lt. Fuller relayed.

“I’ll take it in my office.”

“Yes, Sir.” She clacked a couple of buttons and Jim stepped off the bridge.

  
  
  
“Spock, I didn't think you were going to be there to answer.” Mollie looked worn out, black lines under puffy eyes, a depressed tired tone in her voice. “I was expecting to leave a message.”

“My schedule was different today for administrative reasons.” He couldn’t help but notice that this call originated from her office on campus. “Is this regarding the most recent results on our simulated tests?”

“I just wanted to let you know that you were on my mind is all.” She didn’t seem all that enthusiastic to speak to him. “Sitting here, thinking about the misery these holidays dump on people, I’m missing your company. There’s a lot to be said about suffering fools along with a friend.”

Unsure what to say to that, Spock nodded in agreement. “What are you wearing to Nora’s Fishmas party?”

“Some generic mermaid costume leftover from five Halloweens ago.”

What had she really wanted to talk about that she couldn’t mention in person? She was entirely on the back foot and not doing well in the face of the unexpected. This was out of character for her.

“I will listen, Mollie, to anything you have to say.”

“I know.” She said. “It’s hard to talk about what’s on my mind with spoken words.”

They let silence sock them in like a fog descending into a valley. Finally, she looked at him. “One thing I can say is that I got my new assignment from the Vulcan Aerospace Agency.”

“I did not know you were up for a mission.” He nearly blurted that he hoped it started soon and dragged her away from that sorry excuse of a human being she was seeing.

“I guess I didn’t either.” Her shrug told him that she didn’t care how she’d gotten bumped up the waiting list, only that she’d be glad to see the earth in the rear-view mirror. With that, Detective Pambakian would stay behind too.

“When do you ship out?” Spock wanted details now so he had something to look forward to on her behalf.

“Mid-May. They’re letting me finish out the spring term before I report to Research Vessel Tekkah. So, that gives you and I some time to figure out what we want to do with both of us bopping around the cosmos.”

 _Five-and-a-half months was too long_ , Spock thought. “It would be a good idea to coordinate our leave. I want to see you.”

“As soon as I know, I’ll get in touch. We’ve always said we wanted to spend a week on Kambree’ah exploring the Ancient Vulcan ruins.” A sliver of her old self sparked. “You, me, a tent, some packs, it will be amazing.”

“Yes, it will.” He knew he had months of accumulated leave and so rarely expended any of it that if Command allowed, he could take two-hundred-and-seventy-two consecutive days off.

“Have you gotten out of Captain St. Nick’s party?”

“I have.” While he did not believe in a higher power, escaping the party and shedding a deadweight like Ensign Chalmers was akin to what he thought others believed was divine intervention. “The only lasting effect I’m dealing with is that the CMO is still insisting on getting me a gift. The Secret Santa is determined.”

“Won’t take no for an answer? Tell him that unless he’s gotten you a gigantic meat spatula, that you’re returning whatever he foists off on you for store credit.” She showed a real smile at the memory of the big, dumb meat-flipper.

“We will take it along on our trip to Kambree’ah and use it to stoke the campfire.” Spock had earned an appreciation for the value of gag gifts at that first Christmas. Just as much, or more, thought went into something silly as a more traditional or practical gift. Gauging another person’s sense of humor was harder than purchasing a hat, scarf, or box of chocolates.

She gave a couple of claps of approval. “It’ll be great.”

  
  
  
Mere seconds after he and Mollie signed off, Spock was again calling Justin. He wanted to confirm the suspicion that was crawling around in his brain. “I regret that I am taking up more of your time, Sir.”

“Open door policy, Spock.” Justin said. “It’s not only for everyone else and excluding you. What’s going on?”

“Sarek got Mollie moved up the mission list?”

“You know about that?” It was rare to catch Justin off guard.

“I spoke to her earlier. She claims to not know how her name came up so soon. Given her current mental state and that she’s drained physically, I do not believe it has occurred to her that people who do not want to see her hurt have intervened on her behalf.” Tonight, for the first time in months, Spock would sleep knowing Mollie and Zadie had an expiration date. While he wished to see his friend leave Zadie before next May, at least she was being removed from the situation in the not-too-distant future.

“After the completely unproductive talk your dad had with Mollie two-and-a-half weeks back, he came to us a few days ago with a proposal that would force a wedge between her and that woman, and he could do it in a way that wouldn’t reek of meddling parents.”

“The distance will give her perspective.” Away from an abusive manipulator’s influence, Mollie would come to her senses.

“That’s the plan.”

Spock nodded. “Of that, I am glad.”


	8. Chapter 8

“If you hit that last one, you’ll win the dog!” Johnny almost grabbed onto Spock again to show his enthusiastic encouragement but was able to stop and follow Mollie’s instruction. The human boy had felt bad for his earlier flub even though he hadn’t known any better. No one was mad, lesson learned, they finished guessing the number of wrapped candies in a gargantuan old pickle jar and went to the beanbag toss.

The youths running this game, one of whom was the waitress from the diner, were visibly excited. They wanted Spock to win the stuffed toy that was nearly as tall as he was. All he had to do was tip over the final fake duck that ran on a conveyor track. It appeared an easy enough task, but there were obstacles that popped up, not so regularly as to fit into a pattern, that protected the ducks. This was his twelfth toss and he’d connected eight of the previous eleven.

Even if he didn’t fell the duck, he’d accumulated three other prizes: a Turlock High School pennant, a pair of blue and gold sunglasses, and a tiny plush animal that looked like Boogie Down, the orange tabby who resided in the tractor barn. When the bead-filled microsuede pouch left his hand, it went on a smooth trajectory wherein the only thing that could stop it from connecting to its goal was a chunk of fake grass shooting up and deflecting it. Initially, he didn’t know if he hit the duck or not. People were shouting and it was difficult for him to follow the high-pitched rapid words.

  
  
  
Big Fuzzy Dog took two of them to move from one booth to the next. Mollie won a bookbag and carried all the smaller baubles and bits they earned or were handed. Popping balloons, racing electric toy cars around a Christmas themed track, whatever a whack-a-mole was, finally sent them over to something called a cakewalk.

“We’ll watch your things.” One of the teens running the event said. “Alls you need to do is walk around in that circle while the music plays. When it stops, go stand on a number as fast as you can.”

For a reason he’d not identified, Spock was certain he’d not gotten all the information he needed to make proper sense of this activity, but he decided to follow the incomplete instruction.

“Aaaaaaaaaand go!” The guy running the music hit play and the seemingly pointless milling began.

Martin, Richie, and Jason wandered up, the younger two carting gingerbread houses they’d decorated. They watched as the music halted and kids went skittering for numbers marked in electrical tape on the floor. Jason got called over to pull a number out of a fishbowl.

“Number Four.” The boy read out.

“I am on number four.” Tralnor stared down between his feet. “What do I do?”

The teens and some of the other players wondered why Tralnor was clueless. Richie clarified. “It’s my cousins’ first holiday here. Over on that table are a bunch of desserts. You just won one of them. Pick out whichever cake, pie, or cookies you want.”

“I won by merit of a randomly chosen number after stepping on a number happenstance to where I was when the music ended?” Tralnor said exactly what Spock was thinking.

“ _Oh my god, Richie. Why does everyone in your family sound like that_?” The music guy smiled and shook his head. “Talk at the dinner table’s got to be like being trapped in a room with a bunch of Einsteins.”

“You’re pretty close, Duke.” Richie had Jason take Tralnor’s place for the next go-round.

After three more prizes were drawn, Spock’s number on the fourth bout was called. He followed Tralnor’s lead and walked over to the table that was covered in beautiful looking confectionery. He recognized some plates of cookies as those he’d either helped make or decorate and knew to choose something else. Fascinated by a particular item, he picked up what looked like one of the pieces of wood that burned in the fireplace. It mattered little that the cake smelled strongly of chocolate. He didn’t want to eat it, he wanted to see what was inside it.

Mollie was the last of the Ah’delevna-MacCormacks to win a cake and she got the one that Johnny and Carter had talked up. Neither of their new companions had had the fortune to have their number called, so when she turned and gave them one labeled “chocolate marble cake with chocolate cream filling,” they weren’t sure what to do with themselves.

  
  
  
“After everything, she had the balls to try and be all nicey-nice to you? I’d have told her to go fuck herself.” Miles and Justin were waiting on T’Lal to wind up her show-and-tell.

“I didn’t want the kids to have to see something like that. Tralnor picked up enough.”

“Does he—” Miles was pissed. He twisted his neck and got a vertebrae to pop.

“He doesn’t know what it was, just that Deena was so upset she was crying. She must not have been able to place details out in front of all that emotion.”

“Small favors, Brother, small favors.” Miles sent a wad of memories/emotions/still shots from their senior year at Turlock High.

“She says it’s her biggest fuck-up.” Justin held up his wrist and tapped at it where T’Lal could see.

“I’m sure she does.” Miles cleared his throat. “Okay, onto better and brighter subjects. Speaking of kids, how are yours doing? I know you keep me filled in as much as you can, but it’s strange to have only met them a few times.”

“We’re not trying to sequester them, they’re—”

“Not exactly welcome here on earth. We know. And my boys are too young yet to handle any time on Vulcan. Customs didn’t make them go through livestock decontamination this time, did they?” Miles shook his head.

“I don’t know about Spock. He and his mother arrived a couple days after we did. Mollie is going to spend the rest of her life dealing with these dunces who can’t see past her facial features or the planet stamped on her passport. We got yanked and quasi-interrogated, but nothing like two years ago.” The door mechanism on his wife’s car let off a hearty click. He waved at her, glad she’d rolled up the window and promised folks that show-and-tell would pick up after dinner.

“Maybe LAX is the way to go. Screw Heathrow.”

“Who is Deena March?” If that was T’Lal’s first question, what had happened since Justin watched his ex skulk off to the ladies room?

“Oh, Christ.” Miles made a shooting motion at the side of his head. “ _Psycho ex-girlfriend_ , and she’s here tonight.”

Justin offered his arm to his wife. “Good thing I’ve got an escort.”

“I shall keep an eye out.” T’Lal said.

***

That was one of Justin’s memories that Spock had not examined. While it was still unknown to him what the human had experienced as a teen that left he and Miles with such a sour recollection. The science officer wondered if it wasn’t something akin to fighting off Christine Chapel?

Ready to slip into a meditation robe and shed the craziness of his day, the door chimed. How many evenings in a row was it that he had visitors or deliveries? He hoped it was Kirk and was rewarded with the captain and his smile.

“I got a lab report from Lt. Commander Sha’leyen.” Kirk accepted the invitation to enter and the offer of tea.

“The DNA is irrefutable. Ensign Chalmers is the person who is on the verge of making other bridge crew ill with his poor hygiene.”

“No, that’s not what I saw.” Wrinkled nose, a shake of his head, Kirk continued, “What I got was the identification of all the different kinds of germs and microscopic critters that mess left behind. She wasn’t making light when she put in the short abstract that you had a public health hazard going on.”

“Perhaps if Chalmers had been any sort of considerate, he would not have found himself going back to Sector Command so soon into what should have been a five-year mission.” Spock was so glad to see the back of this kid, not that he’d show it.

“He tried sending me a ‘strongly worded’ letter this afternoon. Good thing I wasn’t meeting with him in person. They say it's rude to laugh at some people no matter how absurd the situation.” Kirk broke into a soft chuckle. “I don’t know how the hell that moron got through the Academy with as allergic to authority figures as he is.”

“The universe is host to many mysteries, Sir.”

“Here’s one mystery that I’d like to solve, what kind of music do you like?”

***

As promised, Justin helped in navigating the hidden pitfalls of the potluck tables. Green bean casserole and tater tot casserole looked nearly identical, however, one had ground beef and the other didn’t. Tomato aspic wasn’t just a pretty way to serve vegetables. The carving station was more revolting than promised, thankfully the adults had the children facing away from the massacre.

The mayor got up and said a word about the joy of the holidays and how glad she was to see all the people in attendance, new faces and old. A county commissioner said essentially the same thing while the chief of police tried to offer a comedy routine that made precisely zero sense to Spock.

“What I am liking the most about this meal is the chance it offers to try many different things.” Spock replied when Theresa asked if he was having a good time. Some items, Spock saw on the menu at the diner, he’d heard Amanda talk about them, or heard Shelby gripe about them. Pickled beetroot had a pleasant color and an okay flavor. Green bean casserole was quite tasty. Mashed potatoes, delicious. Mild Thai curry, also nice. Peas and pearl onions, not so nice. Sweet potato, too sweet and too starchy. . . and the marshmallows were something straight from hell. Sticky-gooey and partially scorched, the topping that people were excited over was worse than the roots they were meant to compliment.

He listened as Grandma Nora answered Martin’s lingering question about psionic brains and pre-frontal cortex activity. She was getting to the interesting part when he heard Mollie say, mind-to-mind, that they were patronizing the dessert table. Spock could ask Martin’s question tomorrow and have what he wanted to know. For this particular moment, he wanted to accompany his friend.

If the cakewalk table had been weighed down with goodies, the dessert selection off to the side of the potluck was a tsunami of cakes, puddings, and pies, all parceled out into single servings. Right then, about the only restriction, Spock had set for this selection was nothing with chocolate in it. Something green and shiny caught his attention. Apparently, there was such a thing as a dessert aspic.

“Ugh, Carmen, what is she wearing?” This from a pack of unknown girls. “It looks like your mom’s curtains in your living room.”

Carmen stepped out of the clique of five strangely similar girls. Each one had quasi-identical hair, voices, posture, and trendy clothes. This Carmen had the same sharp glint that the Grayson boys reveled in. “Why did you leave your house knowing how dumb you looked?”

(Ignoring them.) Mollie said to Spock. Tralnor had come up, grabbed the first thing with peanut butter frosting on it, and went back to eat his treat with the rest of the family. (Maybe they’ll get fed up and go away.)

“You know why I look so pretty?” Carmen posited, the start of a vicious grin went out over her exceedingly average, verging on doughy, face.

(This is strawberry shortcake. It’s really good and not as sugary as some of this other stuff.) Mollie chose her plate, glistening red fruit, whipped cream, and cake, then turned to head for the family.

“I’m _pretty_ because I know how to use a _mirror_. You know, the glass thing on the bathroom wall?” Carmen arranged her minions so they had Mollie hemmed in.

(Don’t worry, Spock. They’re morons.) She stood, not moving or saying anything, letting whatever happened fall on Carmen.

The self-described pretty girl reached around Mollie and took up a dish of glimmering green topped with a puff of marshmallow cream. “Today, my mom told me that I’m the most beautiful princess she’s ever seen.”

“Today, my mom told me,” Mollie remained even and unflustered, “that I had to be careful when I chose my dessert.”

Carmen let her eyes roll. “Why, so you don’t get too fat to wear curtains?”

“Because gelatin is made from boiled horse knuckles.”

Spock almost laughed! What Mollie said, gruesome and true, was not what came close to setting him off. Carmen’s face, knotting up on itself, showing the real ugly that simmered close to the surface, that was funny. It was like seeing one of the Grayson boys get smacked down.

“ _What_?” Carmen spat.

“Dead horses, cattle, and other large mammals, their carcasses are boiled down to render the collagen from their bones and joints. The collagen is turned into gelatin. It gets flavored and turned into green desserts that get eaten by _pretty_ children who don’t know that their pet pony was sent to the rendering plant.” Mollie started along her previous trajectory, stepping around Carmen, leaving her and her gang to gag and stare at one another.

“I do not think they will try and go after you again.” Spock would remember that for years to come. Also, gelatin was disgusting.

***

 _What music do I like_? Spock asked the question again and began piecing together as mundane an answer as he could manage. Music, being that it was so intensely emotional, was another one of those interests that he kept to himself. One of the few accepted outlets for demonstrating one’s feelings within his culture, he did not let his true tastes slip.

“I have a friend who refers to music as the mathematics of the soul.” Spock said of Tralnor, who’d grown up to be a professional musician and music teacher.

Kirk’s delayed reaction, because he wanted a second to think about this indirect quote, was one of thoughtfulness. “That’s the first time I’ve had it put to me like that and your friend has some insight that not all of us are lucky enough to have.”

“I prefer instrumentals.” The quandaries and limitations of verbal exchange stunted the listening experience for most songs. Lyrics, words, while attempting to codify memories, emotions, and ideas, the spoken parts were the least communicative.

“So, if you had to make a choice?” Kirk teased with a shimmy of his brow. “Dixieland or Alpine yodeling, what are you listening to?”

Spock paid little notice to the captain’s chummy glow. “Dixieland. It is both recognizable as a form of music and does not have the aural perception of wild animals calling out to the moon.”

“Is it proving my ignorance again if I tell you that I’m not well-versed enough in jazz to know what the difference is between Dixieland or Ragtime. I don’t imagine it will come as much of a shock to you that I’m not a musician. Hand me a bucket with a tune in it and I’ll find a way to dump it all over the ground.”

“What advantage is there to utilizing a bucket for the conveyance of—” While Spock had heard the expression before and had an okay understanding of what it meant, he had no grasp on how a bucket made contact with the world of music.

Kirk stifled a laugh. “Another figure of speech. We humans love them, and I’m going to say that the reason why is that we’re almost pathologically averse to boredom. It fries our squishy monkey brains.”

***

All of the elements that made up strawberry shortcake, Spock thought he’d not mind eating them separately. Fresh fruit, a not-too-sweet, whipped cream, served on a broken open piece of quick bread that resembled a biscuit that had a smidgen of sugar added. Yes, this had been the right choice for dessert.

His ears pricked to the sound of Carmen whining to her mother about mean kids hurting her feelings. The complaining grew louder as the mother and daughter approached. (Mollie, I believe you may be in trouble.)

(Yeah, probably.) She agreed. (But that girl was a brat.)

“Oh, Carmen. You didn’t tell me everything.” The mom began laughing. “You tried to take on a MacCormack and you lost. Consider it a lesson in not making a fool of yourself.”

“No!” Carmen squawked. “She said I was eating boiled horses!”

“Because you were.” The mom replied. “And you were lucky she wanted to get back over here to eat or she would have given you all the details you never wanted to know.”

“Charlotte Black?” Livia was coming around the table. “How many years has it been?”

“It’s Christofferson now.”

Spock and Mollie revolved around as to subtlety gawk.

“And I want to say it’s been nine years since we last got together for pie and coffee.” Charlotte pulled up a chair. “Miles, Justin, it’s been a while.”

“Hey, Charlie.” Miles greeted.

“Sounds like the kids have met.” Justin might have taken that as an in to explain why what Mollie had said was uncalled for, but didn’t seem to care.

“Make her say she’s sorry!” Carmen tried tugging on her mother’s arm while indicating Mollie needed berating. “Her, she said—”

“Enough, Carmen. I’m going to talk to my old friends. Go find your father if you’re not going to sit down and behave.”

“You’re not my Mom!” The girl was off in a huff. “I hate you!”

“Someone tried to get into a battle of the wits with this one over here and showed up to the fight completely unarmed.” Charlotte wasn’t necessarily showing disgust at the child’s behavior, but she definitely was worn out by the girl’s routine. “She’s my husband’s daughter from his first marriage. Everything is the end of the world for her and she’s mean on top of it all. She’s basically a clone of her mother. Ernie’s worried she’s turning into Paisley, but mommy dearest won’t let us send her to a therapist.”

“Oh, Charlotte.” Theresa said. “If it comes down to it, get a court order. She’s young enough yet to mitigate some of the damage done by personality disorders.”

“Carmen is mean because she wants to be that way.” Tralnor, fork down, stared after the acerbic girl. “She likes disturbing people.”

“She’s only seven and she’s a barracuda.” To Mollie, Charlotte said, “I’m sorry you had to deal with that. Good job on the boiled horses thing. Maybe she’ll take that as a reason for not torturing other people because she doesn’t like what they’re wearing.”

“She believes she’s incapable of being wrong. Her mother has her convinced about that.” Tralnor blinked a few times, pushed the subject from his mind, and went back to his food.

“What is that?” Mollie looked around for something. “Can you hear it?”

Spock almost asked what she meant when he felt the collective buzz in the room ramp up to a million candle-power. Excited children clapped and ran, laughing, screaming joy, propelling themselves headlong toward the new noises coming through the exterior gymnasium doors.

“Ooooooooh! _Hurry you guys_.” Johnny rushed the MacCormack’s table, Carter on his heels. “Santa’s here.”

Bells and a voice calling out came through more clearly when one set of doors opened to admit a rotund man with white hair. His red and white clothing ensured he’d be seen in a crowd of thousands. Spock wanted to hold back and watch the spectacle for a little while.

“I’m telling him I want the new _CuckooNuts!_ game.” Carter couldn’t hold still any longer and bounded off with the rest of the kids.

Johnny, wearing the same grin as he had that night at the sporting goods store said, “There’s nothing to worry about. This Santa doesn’t give out coal.”

“What makes coal a gift you do not want?” Tralnor’s serious approach to the topic had Charlotte and Johnny laughing.

“If you’ve been bad, you get a lump of coal. If you’ve been good, you get a real present.” Johnny said when he’d recovered.

The other MacCormack kids young enough to take in a wish and a photo with the old man started toward the set that the mayor and county commissioner gave their speeches from. Seated in a throne-like velvet cushioned chair, this Santa person had drawn quite the collection of fans.

“Now, you’re supposed to tell him what you want for Christmas. Carter doesn’t know it, but I want the _CuckooNuts!_ game too.”

“Go on over. You can finish your desserts later.” Justin directed.

“Thank you for the instruction, Johnny.” Tralnor stabbed his fork into the uneaten portion of his cake and hopped off his folding chair. “Does it matter what kind of gift you request?”

“Nope.” The towheaded boy assured. “It’s _anything_ you want.”

“With no guarantee that you’ll get the thing you’re asking for.” Theresa gave more clarification.

“I do not want a game.” Tralnor leaned his head to the right, collected a thought, and said, “I want a swift prosecution of the people who would hurt someone who is bes’tek mahs-yuu.”

“ _That sounds hard_.” Johnny could not have explained what he’d just heard if bribed with another chocolate marble cake. “I think?”

“Far be it from me to suggest differently.” Livia said. “That you’d rather request help for your friend instead of asking for something for yourself lets us know we’re raising you right.”

“Am I wrong to make that my wish, Auntie?”

“No, you are not.” T’Lal assured. “I believe you need to get in line over there so you can ask for your gifts.”

“Yes, Mother.”

Spock, Mollie, Tralnor, and Johnny caught up to Carter. Each child in line was given a brown paper bag loaded down with treats. Spock decided to take a gamble. If he’d read their new human acquaintances correctly, this would go well. “Johnny, Carter, I would trade you the chocolate candy in my bag for a piece of your fruit.”

An apple and an orange went into each bag. Carter fished his out and immediately handed them over. “Keep your candy. We’ve got oranges and apples in the back yard. Our freezer is full of them.”

“I want the chocolate.” Johnny smiled wide enough that it would strain a muscle in Spock’s face if he tried to imitate him. “And we’ve got a freezer full of Carter’s mom’s fruit too.”

Pleased with his acquisitions, liking how the evening had played out to this point, Spock found that he was enjoying this experience. Perhaps there was the chance at a future with some decent people in it?

***

Kirk didn’t know why, but he was starting to like this guy’s company. He thought part of it was how Spock was the same person off the clock as when he was on-shift. None of his affect was a front put on to keep people at a distance. The captain found it commendable that a member of his command staff was so refreshingly honest.

“I was so glad to get your message about letting everyone but the slob come to the party.”

“As are my officers.” Spock got out the very last of his mother’s pecan shortbread.

“You’re going to have to ask your mom for more cookies. I’d ask the galley to make them, but this bunch can’t put the butter on toast without screwing it up.” Given the state of culinary distress aboard the Enterprise, the shortbread in his mouth was the best thing he’d eaten all day. Jim tried to play it off like it wasn’t a big deal, that everyone had their bad days, even kitchen staff. No, they were just bad. “I’ll compensate the both of you for a batch of these every once in a while.”

“You will incur the ire of our CMO if my mother and I honor that request.”

 _Damnit, Jimmy_ , he thought. “I’d have to hide them here with you. He could have some psionic abilities with the way he can sense when I’ve come within fifty meters of a dessert. He can’t take them away if he can’t find them.”

A mild shimmer in the scientist’s eyes gave one of the first indications this was going to be a grand friendship. “Perhaps it is for the best if I offer to share with you when the next batch arrives?”

Kirk gave a nod in agreement. “Maybe next year, if I’m extra good, Santa will send me a tin of my very own.”

“We shall have to see.”

***

Justin popped into line with the children when they’d almost made it to the head of the queue. He’d explain why “his three” as he referred to them so often were going to stand and talk to Santa, no physical contact. While this wasn’t actually an issue for Mollie and would be an annoyance to Spock, Tralnor might not come out of it so well. Therefore, all three of them would interact with the jovial man in red in a different manner than even the other MacCormack kids. Spock liked how Justin’s advocacy meant that all the children at the dinner, including the non-humans, could participate in what was clearly an important ritual within this culture.

“The elves have your ears, but yours are way better.” Johnny pointed out Santa’s assistants.

Was that a compliment? Spock was going to ask Johnny what he meant, Justin and Tralnor went up to the man in the chair. Some quick conversation, ground rules set, Santa leaned over to hear what the little boy wanted for his holiday gift. Justin shot a thumbs up to Mollie.

(He says its all good, Spock.) Mollie relayed.

Santa’s face developed a curious expression and he said, “Are you sure you don’t want a toy, young man?”

“Yes, Sir.” Tralnor said. “My friend is more important to me than a toy.”

“My elves and I will see what we can do.” Santa accepted a small wrapped gift from a helper and gave it to Tralnor. “Merry Christmas.”

“Thank you, Sir.” Tralnor almost walked off before getting a photo taken.

Two other children, a boy and a girl, who’d gotten their presents went past the waiting line and talked to people they knew. The stopped at Spock and Mollie, getting a good long look. The girl started this conversation with, “We saw you with Johnny and Carter. Did you move here?”

Still so leery of new people, Spock clammed up. Johnny got on top of that question. “Tasha and Robbie, this is Mollie.”

“Hi, Mollie.” Tasha was quick to offer a welcome. “If you go to our school, maybe we can be in Mrs. Bellamy’s class together.”

“Hello, Tasha.” Mollie wasn’t outwardly nervous, but like Spock, she was waiting for a landmine to take her unexpected.

“This is Spock and that’s his little brother and dad over there talking to Shari Vale.” Johnny thought he’d done a fine job of introducing his new friends.

Spock’s first reaction was to contradict Johnny and rectify the boy’s mistake regarding his kinship to the two people mentioned as family. A swift clamp down on his emotions, before his profound longing and perpetual loneliness started to show, he decided to keep his mouth shut and give these kids the illusion that he was part of the long-standing MacCormack family. He didn’t want to have to explain why he was on earth, why he’d come up to Turlock from Big Bear, or who Sarek was. A simple omission, for now, did not preclude a proper diagram of who, what, and how Spock was associated with the MacCormacks sometime in the future.

“Do you like baseball, Spock?” Robbie didn’t seem to notice or care that Spock was an alien.

Baseball? “What is baseball?”

“What— _What’s baseball_?” Robbie’s incredulity left Spock bracing for a nasty rebuttal. The Grayson boys had had no end of delighting in berating Spock for his lack of common knowledge about the objects and activities of the average child of earth.

“I don’t think Vulcans play baseball, Robbie.” Carter said.

Arms across his chest, eyes narrowed, the right side of his mouth crafting into a quasi-smirk, Robbie said, “Oh, they will.”

“ _Yeah_!” Johnny and Carter went off simultaneously.

“What do you mean?” Mollie wanted to get this sussed and remove herself and Spock from the situation if need be.

“My dad will talk to your dad and we’re going to play.” Robbie smiled and nodded.

“I can loan you my brother’s old mitt that he grew out of. I can’t use it because I’m left-handed.” Tasha said. “We’ll go to Legion Park.”

“What’s baseball? It’s only the _best_ game ever invented.” And that was final.

***

While Kirk ate the last piece of shortbread the door sounded again. Spock went to answer, thinking he’d rather see Leonard McCoy on the other side than his impassioned nurse. The yeoman who’d dropped off the first delivery of Christmas mail had a padded envelope. “This is yours, Sir. It fell off one of the sorting tables and got stuck between a courier cart and the bulkhead it got shoved against. We should have gotten this to you days ago. We apologize for our oversight.”

Spock accepted the package. Kirk started asking about this newest arrival before he had time to read the return label and determine if this was something that needed to come out of the mailer now or if it had to wait until later. Who did he know in Rochester, New York?

“You’re really not going to open it? Aren’t you curious?”

Unable to determine the sender, he’d wait until he was alone before examining what was inside. He set it in the drawer where he’d secreted away his copy of _Shane_. He didn’t know why he was compelled to hide the book when Kirk was around, but he thought it in his own best interest to keep the literary discussion between he and Joe Bergman confined to just the two of them.

“I obviously don’t have your patience. I’d be tearing into that thing before the yeoman got it handed to me all the way. You were probably the only kid in the universe who didn’t spend hours under the tree shaking your presents and trying to guess what was in them.”

“Where I spent Christmas, there was no room for children to do such a thing. Once the space under the tree was taken, a card table and a bookcase were brought out to hold and display gifts.” Spock thought of the wrapped gift Mollie had sent. He checked the drawer he’d put the new envelope in and while he knew it hadn’t gone anywhere, he was reassured by the little glittery package nestled away from the captain’s prying eyes.

“That’s an impressive pile of presents.” Kirk loosened his shoulders and leveled an amused gaze at the science officer. “This is the last time I’m going to say anything about this to you, but don’t you think it would look better to your bridge officers if you were to at least make an appearance at the party, maybe make them feel like you identify with them somewhat?”

“I will not be at your party, Sir.”

***

“You should hear what these ones asked for.” Justin returned the children to their desserts and settled back in with the adults. “You got to hear Tralnor’s.”

“Mollie, I’m going to say a koi pond or an interactive anatomical model of the human brain.” Livia said. “Ever since she saw those fish at the T’Sia Municipal Gardens, she’s been keen on putting a pond in T’Lessa’s back garden.”

“I think that’s the first time Santa has ever had a request for _carp_.” Justin loved the oddballs and wouldn’t have his kids or those he viewed as his any other way than how they were naturally. “Santa’s eyes glazed over as her descriptions of the fish and their habitat went into detail.”

“That’s my Mollie.”

“I imagine Carmen asked for a voodoo doll in my likeness.” Charlotte was still at a total loss about what could be done with her stepdaughter.

(Spock asked for his dad to be a little more like me.) That clobbered Justin like a battering ram to the chest.

(I wish that he could experience Sarek in the same way that we know him. He’s not an insufferable stuffy snob with a heart made out of Siberian tundra. Maybe if T’Pau—Who are we kidding? She’d rather watch her family crash and burn than open her mind to the possibility that not everyone wants or is capable of living up to her hyper-stringent requirements.) Livia said, aloud, “It might be worth it to do as Theresa suggested and file a petition with the court, get the kid evaluated by the state, and go from there.”

“Yeah, we’re probably going to have to.” Charlotte peered down to the end of the table where some local kids were inviting the off-world MacCormacks to join them on the hayride. “What they’re doing right now, it would be a miracle to see out of Ernie’s kid. She’s got her equally as nasty friends and all they do is complain about or harass other people.”

Some other parents arrived and started asking around, figuring out the ifs and whens of a potential ball game. Justin remembered his baseball days with relish. He’d even been recruited to play at some smaller colleges and universities but left the sport for the much lower pressure world of intramural sports. Heck, he and some of the other human faculty at the Science Academy went up to Vulcan Space Central once a week to play basketball in a space where most everyone could be cool and run around in earth-normal gravity.

“Baseball is a rather mathematical sport from what I have seen of it.” T’Lal had agreed that Tralnor could try it out. “The only ball games I have experience with—”

Livia hooted. “Oh, T’Lal. Beer pong and pool sharking don’t count.”

A couple of these new parents didn’t know it possible to associate a Vulcan and beer pong in the same sentence. Livia explained, “Because of some, we’ll call them _immigration snafus_ , T’Lal had to work under the table for a while after she got to earth. Hustling pool, drinking games, poker, she paid a lot of her tuition with the proceeds from those contests. Even when she got her pilot’s license and had a steadier income, she’d rustle up extra cash by spending an occasional evening letting humans challenge her. And you’d have been good at baseball, T’Lal.”

“The only warning I will issue is that you might want to brief your children that Tralnor, Mollie, and Spock come from a world with a higher gravity and as such will hit harder and throw farther than earth-born children are capable of.” T’Lal didn’t want potential friendships to destruct because of one group’s differing physical attributes.

“Also tell them that our little bunch from ShiKahr wouldn’t normally be allowed to compete with or against them.” Livia added. “So this is strictly a friendly exhibition match.”

Parents seemed to understand and arrangements were made for the afternoon of December twenty-seventh. Justin mentioned that he and Miles would show the newcomers the ins-and-outs of the sport so the kids could start playing right away rather than spend time teaching the game.

For a short moment, it was only Justin and Livia left at the table. She said, “What about that, Brother, proof that there are a few decent people left in the universe and they want to be friends with our very unique children.”

“I’m liking it a lot. It’s something they’ve needed for a long time considering what the snotty diminutive beasts they go to school with are like. That they might come here two or three times throughout the year and be with kids their own age who view them as people, oh yeah, I like it.”

“Who’s picking up Sarek and Amanda at SFO? The embassy or one of us? I don’t think they should have to take shit from some simpering little fucktard like Sajak after a trip like this. You know, there are times when I think that scheming bastard actually wishes harm upon our babies.” Livia grumbled and started collecting the empty dessert plates.

Helping her bus the disposable tableware, Justin snickered. “Sarek has made it so Sajak can’t advance up the diplomatic ladder. He’ll never be more than some low-level ass kisser. The ambassador won’t let him transfer to another post. So, he’s either got to stick it out here or quit.”

“He’s too stupid to quit.”

“And as such, he’ll stay irrelevant small potatoes.” When he set the last of the cutlery in the collection barrel, Justin put the finishing touch on the state of Sajak. “I think what I like the most about this is he’s too fucking stupid to see that Sarek is taking the piss out of him. His boss has a sense of humor that includes finding it funnier than hell to watch his obnoxious aide flop around like a headless chicken.”

“And people think Vulcans don’t know when something is funny.” Livia kept smiling at the mere idea of seeing Sajak’s knuckles being rapped.

  
  
  
Hayride.

As in a literal execution of the word.

Spock was thrown off at this because so much of the Standard English as utilized as earth’s lingua franca was riddled with contradictions, hidden meanings, and words that looked like they should mean one thing but their definition was some wildly unrelated other. “I think those are horses, Mollie.”

They looked at the quadrupedal chestnut-colored herbivores with their long faces and tails that were used in making violin bows. Vids and pictures did not do these creatures any sort of justice. On Vulcan, animals of this size were almost certainly predators, poisonous, or both.

“I think you’re right.” She said as he took her hand and they ascended a squat set of movable stairs. Once atop the hay bale stacked flatbed they followed the example as shown by others and sat on a giant brick of compacted dry grass.

Tralnor scuttled up after and crawled right between them. “I’m cold and we haven’t gone anywhere yet.”

They’d stopped at the coat check, but even bundled up they felt a chill. Older cousins came aboard and temporarily moved Johnny and Tasha so that the young Vulcans could be draped in blankets. Tabitha and Richie decided to stay on and sat toward the opposite end.

With an initial jerk, the tame herbivores pulled the trailer, strings of jingle bells tinkling in the night. Relative speed attained, that’s when the singing began.

***

Kirk fumed over Spock’s use of the word trite. The Vulcan thought it perfectly encapsulated his thoughts and feelings on Christmas music. Simple jingles with contrived lyrics, he failed to see what might captivate someone to purposely seek out such tunes. This subjective opinion was one the captain decided to take affront to.

“It’s not meant to be high brow, Spock. It’s supposed to be fun and cheerful.” Kirk went on defense.

“I find that it does not fit either criteria. Repetitious to the point of madness, it is hackneyed, disingenuous, and grating.”

“Okay, I can see where you’d find that the truth, there’s not a lot of selection, and the songs themselves aren’t of brilliant quality, but what’s disingenuous about it?”

“It is exploitative, manipulating thoughts and emotions into creating false narratives of holidays past, making previous gatherings seem like they were more enjoyable than they were. It gives artificial build-up for those who believe there is something fundamentally wrong with them when their Christmases bear no resemblance to the idealized affairs of fictitious revelers. It promises solace and joy where none may be found. It is hype.” He could see that he’d upset this man who only wanted to share something he loved. “I have come to that conclusion after many years of witnessing the human suffering involved with this holiday. Save for the first I spent on earth, my involvement with my friend’s family was an affair I looked forward to. It was only after my posting here that I have seen what this day, this season, does to disenchant people and leave them feeling hollow. The music is, in my personal belief, an omnipresent irritant and depressant.”

Bewildered, Kirk rolled his lips over his teeth for a few seconds as he tried to come up with a comment. Opening his mouth with a smack, he said, “Put that way. . . You have some sharp observational skills, I’ll say that.”

“If I have offended you—”

“No, I’m not offended. In fact, thank you for having a reasonable argument on the subject. I’ve found that if someone hates Christmas or any of the major things associated with it, they tend to give a ‘because I said so,’ explanation and move on to the next subject. This helps me know my own people better, Spock.” Kirk’s eyes darted as his contemplation expounded. “ _Christmas music as quantifiable human misery_. That would be one hell of a psych journal article.”

Spock cited a need to finish processing Ensign Chalmers’ transfer paperwork to get the captain to move along. After bidding one another a good night, the recently delivered package was placed on the desk and opened with the penknife.

John Ward, Carter Schwartz, and their boys Alex and Dougie Ward-Schwartz wished Spock a Merry Christmas. In their card was a handsome paper photo of the happy young family. An included letter gave the details of that summer’s move from Houston to Rochester where Carter had a position on the pulmonology faculty at the University of Rochester and John had opened up his new dental practice. Spock was glad to see that life was treating Johnny and Carter well.

As for why this card, photo, and letter needed a padded envelope, something long and fairly flat was wrapped in protective layers. He pulled that out, seeing there was no warning that it needed to wait until a specific time or date to open it, Spock divested a framed photo. It was a group shot from their very first hayride, four humans wildly smiling, three Vulcans almost blue-lipped from the chill. That had been an almost magical night.

***

Music, dancing, door prizes, the kids had worn themselves out. Spock and Mollie were asleep, propped up against the ridiculously large stuffed animal the boy had won, which itself was shoved against a set of closed bleachers. Justin had his sleepy boy in arms. At seven minutes to midnight, the party was finally winding down and it was time to get everyone home and in bed.

“Where are we putting that. . . _thing_?” T’Lal said of the toy. “It will not fit in my vehicle.”

“It should fit in the cookie-mobile now that most of them have been eaten or handed out.” He and his wife began on the unpleasant task of waking people up and getting them to a point of coherence where they could ambulate out to the car. (Three little Christmas zombies went to a party. . .)

(I thought zombies were only associated with Halloween.) T’Lal gathered Spock’s yule log cake and Tralnor’s red and green frosted double-layer something so the kids only had to worry about coats and smaller gifts and prizes.

(Zombies aren’t strictly a Halloween thing.) “Don’t worry, when we get you three all buckled in, Uncle Miles and I will put Big Fuzzy Dog in Grandma Nora’s van.”

They’d gotten the kids into the lobby where the exiting attendees bottlenecked at the doors. The crowd moved steadily even if it wasn’t very quick. Once they finally emerged and made for the car park, Justin’s insides curdled. Waiting at T’Lal’s Mustang was Deena March.

( _Oh, shit_.) Justin asked his wife to get the little ones taken care of. “Deena?”

Red-eyed, sheepish, the old high school sweetheart struggled to find her footing and say what she wanted before settling on a sad apology. “I’m sorry about what happened, I really am. I worried for a long time that you weren’t going to find happiness and here you are. You’ve got a gorgeous wife and beautiful kids. You’ve got an ambitious career on another planet. You made a life in spite of everything.”

“It’s a little late for sorry, Deena.”

“I know.” She put on a pouty, puffy face that failed to garner any sympathy. “It’s because of you that I became a social worker for human psions who’ve fallen through the cracks.”

“Supplanting guilt by overcompensating for prior bad acts is part of human nature.” He wasn’t going to get angry or take his frustration out on a person who’d become pathetic over the years.

“I decided I wanted to be part of the solution, Justin.”

“That you have chosen your career based on making up for the harm you brought down on me only proves that you need to spend a lot of time getting psychiatric help.” He motioned for T’Lal to start the car and run the heater.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you.” Tears rolled again.

“Yes, you did.” He put her into a state of shock. She’d honestly expected that he’d gratefully accept her half-hearted mea culpa. “You deliberately set out to ruin me and you almost succeeded. In legal terms, what you did to me, that’s premeditation. It reveals your callous nature and that is something I don’t want to be exposed to ever again.”

“But I—”

“This is our last conversation.” He stayed calm in the face of a volatile cascade of memories.

“Justin.”

“Deena, you are never to speak to me again.”

  
  
  
“What a piece of work. That she could say that. . .” Miles blew a raspberry, showing all the deference he gave this woman. “And in front of the kids so you couldn’t tell too much of the truth to her face. She’s still such a piece of shit.”

Justin agreed with his brother. “She came all the way out here from Chattanooga to say she was sorry. It might have been half-sincere but she’s still so boggled by getting caught out in the first place that part of her still puts the blame on me.”

“She’s worse than Ilee Stevick, still, and that’s not saying much for Ilee.” Miles reached down into an old wooden crate where he’d squirreled away some beers in the lead-up to heading off for the dinner. “Another?”

“Don’t mind if I do.”

“I’m going to have to quit after this one. My wife gets a little bent out of shape when she smells booze on my breath. I don’t think it matters that I’m shooting the shit in the tractor barn with my twin. Flora’s always been weird like that.” Miles popped the top and tossed the painted metal cap in a barrel that had thousands of the metal bits from the last ten years. It plinked when it hit the rest of the collection.

“God, I think of the liters and liters of beer and hard liquor I’ve seen T’Lal down, she calls me a lightweight.” Justin followed with his bottle top.

“Do you think Deena’s going to stay away? For good this time? I never thought she’d have the chutzpah show her face around here while the planet was still turning on its axis.”

“If she doesn’t, she’s not going to be St. March, the patron saint of downtrodden Tennesseean psions for much longer. I have no compunction placing a few calls and taking her out of situations where she might be exploiting the vulnerable.”

“Hey, the kids had a great time.” Miles visibly lightened up at the shift in subject.

“Except Charlotte’s acidic little step-monster.”

“Boiled horse knuckles.” Miles almost choked on his drink. “That was inspired.”


	9. Chapter 9

Justin awoke, his arms wrapped around his wife, and experienced a microburst of dismay. Whether he wanted to or not, his thoughts kept going back to Deena March. Miles had made a good point last night when they were hanging out in the tractor barn, saying that Deena wanted something. She didn’t come three-quarters of the way across the continent to prattle off some half-assed apology to her former high school sweetheart.

T’Lal re-entered the realm of the living, ethereal green eyes assessed his outward condition. She didn’t cross over their marriage bond and seek answers as to why Justin was emotionally off-kilter. (You did not give much of an introduction to the topic last night, so I will enquire again, who is Deena March?)

(She’s the person who nearly got me sent to prison for fifteen years.)

(I have often heard that amongst humans it is in poor taste to inquire about an individual’s previous relationships. I never asked about yours, or if you had had any at all before meeting me because it was not important. It appears as though I should have broken that unwritten taboo and learned of this Deena.)

He knew if he didn’t talk to her about this that it would fester, derailing their holiday. (Deena was my high school girlfriend.)

(I gathered that much from Miles, between his outbursts of swearing whenever her name got mentioned last night. I believe he used the word ‘psycho’ no less than a dozen times in his descriptions of her.) T’Lal let him hug her close, practically to the point he could hear her heart beating.

(I’ll start by explaining that this all came about because she didn’t want to try for a long-distance relationship when we went off to university. I was, of course, on my way to USC. She’d not gotten into Southern California and wound up accepting a slot at the local, Cal State Stanislaus, where she intended to finish her first year, then transfer to a school she actually wanted to attend.) He’d thought that Deena was going with him to Los Angeles, so when that didn’t play out and she’d started stressing about what was going to happen to them when he moved away, he’d proposed that they give their union a semester to see if they could keep it together. His view was that a semester was a reasonable amount of time to both see if their perspectives on one another changed and they naturally grew apart. If that wasn’t the case, then bully for them. Justin thought he and Deena were in a good place as they stared down the summer after their senior year of high school.

(The last week of June, the Sheriff showed up at the door and much to the shock of me and the rest of the family, I was arrested on the spot. Deputies marched me out to their cruiser. They’d not even given me the time to put on clothes. I was hauled off to the sheriff’s department and booked into the jail in nothing but my underpants.) The snippets of that event he allowed to surface brought a sheen of sweat to his brow. (I was in so much shock about the arrest itself, I didn’t hear what I was charged with. My parents had to explain it to me when the undersheriff caved and let them see me when he shouldn’t have.)

(I imagine Chuck and Hannah were rather upset, something like Sarek when he was told of Spock’s ordeal?) She sent him some calming thoughts.

(My dad couldn’t stop crying and my mom was so pissed that she had to leave the room three times before they could tell me what happened.)

T’Lal pulled back a few centimeters so she could view Justin’s face. (That is out of character for them.)

(Deena claimed that I’d psionically forced my mind into hers and from there used telepathy to make her have sex with me. That I’d done that to her on multiple occasions during the two-and-a-half years we were boyfriend and girlfriend.)

His wife, seldom cut off at the knees about anything, couldn’t wrangle the shot of incredulity that plowed into him. Her ability to speak temporarily suspended, all she had the power to do was blink and try to get her brain to comprehend what he’d shared with her.

(The cops were apologetic. They knew Deena was full of shit, but they had to take her claim seriously as if I had manipulated and abused her.)

(I have borne witness to the fact that humans will tell elaborate lies for inexplicable reasons.)

Justin kissed her forehead. (We can be terrible in that way.)

(Is it truly that difficult to end a relationship?) Again, human idiocy addled her mind.

(It was for her, apparently. She didn’t know how to tell me to get fucked and leave her alone because her feelings were still hurt that she’d not gotten into the university she’d wanted. Therefore, if she wasn’t moving to Los Angeles with me, she’d make sure I was done with her for good.)

(Thus making the breakup your fault, not hers?)

He tried to nod but didn’t think he got his head to move. Granted, that arrest was nearly two decades ago, something that should have worked itself out of his system by now, however, talking about it was tossing out anguish and confusion almost as fresh as when it happened. (I think that was what she was trying for.)

(Is she pathetic or terrible?)

(It’s a sad mixture of the two. Given what she told me last night, she’s given her lies a lot of thought over the years. That she’s a social worker for down-and-out psions living on the streets and in the dregs of Chattanooga tells me that she’s not evolved as a person since I last saw her and that she will spend the rest of her life searching out the next great cause to make herself feel better about what she did to me.) Frustration growing, continuing to process how earthshaking Deena traipsing back into town was, Justin was never so glad for his beloved wife.

(She has developed a savior complex.) T’Lal threaded the fingers of her left hand into the hair on the side of his head.

Absorbing the calming energy she sent to him, Justin closed his eyes and released the built-up tension. (She kept up the ruse for a month and a half. I was arraigned, not granted bail due to the severity of the charges, and lived in fear every second that I was going to spend the rest of my life in prison on eleven counts of rape in the first degree, nine counts of unlawful imprisonment, three of kidnapping, another eleven of psionic violation in the first degree, battery. . . Discovery proceedings had already been started by the time her story began to fall apart. At my mid-July pre-trial hearing, I was fortunate to have a judge who was not a rubber stamp churn and a fantastic attorney who’d found all manner of issues with Deena’s account. Thankfully, Judge Dykstra dismissed my case. It was Deena who wound up with four years of probation and paying restitution.)

(The more I attempt to comprehend this from her side, the more another part of my brain seeks out a logical answer that is not coming.)

(This is the long version of how I wound up in law school.)

(Your J.D. is one of the few details of your life that I have not been able to reconcile with your interests or career goals that I have been exposed to.) Not long after their initial meeting, T’Lal had asked why he’d decided on his chosen graduate program.

(It was purely a reaction to the abject helplessness I was smothered with as I continued to languish in the county jail. I have never wanted to be a lawyer even though I graduated and passed the Bar. I needed the reassurance that I could participate in my own defense should something or someone visit cruel lies on me again.) Now, lips met lips in a two-pronged approach to dissipating Justin’s memory-induced emotional torment. T’Lal would help him expel Deena from his mind, and the lovemaking that would take him to that point would be pleasurable for his wife. And a happy wife. . .

  
  
  
SFO heaved with frantic holiday traffic, people rushing to make it to and from ancestral homes for family celebrations. Justin walked at a pace that would seem slow on almost any other day, but given the crowds, he was making good time. Once in the baggage claim, he consulted a reader board. Sarek and Amanda’s flight had touched down on time, a minor miracle.

“Must you insinuate yourself into every aspect of our lives, MacCormack?” Sajak had melted out of the crowd. “Now that you’re back on your planet of origin, don’t you think it’s for the best that you and your relations remain here?”

“You’re just pissed that I’ve switched places with you.” Justin glanced at the escalator leading down from the concourse level. The flight from Proxima Rusalka hadn’t disgorged its passengers.

“Do explain your _human_ ramblings.” Sajak’s tone let Justin know that the attache was waiting for him to skulk off to Turlock and leave the ambassador to the so-called professional.

“Now that Sarek has adjusted his schedule, I’m going home on second January.” A buzzer sent an ugly wave of noise and a strobing green light to let waiting passengers know their baggage was soon to arrive.

“Spare me your pedantic hints, MacCormack.”

“Doesn’t sound like your boss or anyone up at the embassy has broken the news to you.” Justin half contemplated if it was possible for Sajak to ever insult or intimidate him. All the staffer ever seemed to do was embarrass himself. He didn’t have the wit or intelligence to cut Justin down to size.

“You are tiresome.” Was that a sharp rise and fall of Sajak’s shoulders?

 _Pissed at me already_? Justin thought. “I’m also the guy who’s taking your place on Sarek’s shuttle when he and his family head back to Vulcan.”

Before Sajak could snipe at Justin, a certain senior diplomat and his wife began on the descent to the luggage carousel. “Good evening Ambassador, Lady Amanda. Am I to take you to the Residence this afternoon?”

Somewhat road-weary, Sarek said to his distressed underling, “Justin is taking us to see our son.”

“It sounds like he’s been doing well with you and yours.” Amanda had a lovely ‘knowing’ smile.

“The Community Dinner was last night. Your boy was a dynamo at the beanbag duck toss, won the big prize, and when I say big, I mean it had to ride in Grandma Nora’s cookie van.”

Lady Amanda’s face transformed from enjoying an inside joke to shining happiness at the word that Spock had participated in a new activity. “Oh?”

“Our three did the cakewalk, talked to Santa, rode around in T’Lal’s Mustang. . .” Each additional undertaking as ascribed to her son, Mollie, and Tralnor brought higher wattage to the light in her eyes. “They made friends with some local kids about their age and we’re going to get together for a baseball game on the twenty-seventh.”

Amanda grabbed her husband’s hand so she might say something and not have Sajak the gossipmonger talking behind her back.

“And we’ve still got several dozen cookies.” The comment seemed disjointed until Justin added, “I made sure I set aside a full dozen of the ones our kids decorated.”

She thought she might cry, this was her boy Justin was talking about!

(She wants me to say to you it tears her apart knowing that we must take them back to a city where they are not appreciated.) Sarek’s ability to make telepathic contact with Justin, not touching the human in any way, was born of their decade-plus friendship. Sajak was green to proverbial gills that Sarek could or would align himself so closely with the MacCormacks. “Justin, where are you parked?”

Sajak stared after them as they collected the checked bags and left.

  
  
  
Niner’s Saloon was an ancient bar in the old working-class suburb of South San Francisco. Dark, probably dingy if you thought too hard about it, the atmosphere was something like what Justin would expect if time travel was a reality and could ferry him back two centuries before present. Handed down through multiple generations of the O’Connor family, Niner’s was the sort of place where beer, pizza, and billiards were in their natural habitat.

Justin held the door for his friends and not-really-in-laws in-laws, to see T’Lal warming up on her favorite table. She called a shot and popped the three-ball into the bumper opposite from where she stood, got it to spin in such a way that it took off on a diagonal and into the corner pocket she’d wanted.

“We didn’t know what you’d want to drink not knowing how you were feeling after your long flight.” Theresa looked at the pool table when the sound of balls clacking in the transfer of kinetic energy caught her attention. T’Lal’s shot landed and she returned her focus to their friends. “We’ve got cheese pies, potato wedges, breaded mushrooms, and an extra-large bucket of buttered popcorn on order.”

The door opened again, admitting more MacCormacks for this lunch adventure. Livia grinned and said to the friends and family already stationed in the bar, “Oh good, you made it.”

“We figured you’d be running late given where and when you were landing.” Miles came in on Livia’s tail. “Merry Christmas.”

More “siblings” arrived. Justin, Livia, and Miles were Chuck and Hannah’s kids. Theresa was Jamie and Penny’s only child, raised in England save summers and the winter holidays. Theodore and Alicia were Gabe and Tori’s kids. The six of them, even with Theresa being half a world away most of the year, had been and remained close. Another generation of MacCormacks raised without so many delineations between offshoots of the family.

Two final figures emerged into the cave-like atmosphere of Niner’s. Mark, Alicia’s husband and someone else who’d arrived as a surprise. Theresa greeted more familiar faces until she stared at this last man to enter the party. Justin and Miles shot satisfied looks at one another. While one brother collected the ambassador and his wife, the other, ostensibly on a quick business thing in LA, brought back someone special.

“ _You’re not supposed to be here_!” Theresa went from chair to leaping in Sula’s arms at an Olympic-record shattering pace. “You sneaky, sneaky, yet very beautiful man.”

Without her husband, Theresa had been somewhat lost over the last week. “How did you get Mecha Toad Face to give you any leave?”

Sula’s supervisor, the head of the biofilm engineering lab at the VSA, was christened Mecha Toad Face years before. Professor Stahlek moved like a child thrashing around inside the Tin Man costume from _The Wizard of Oz_ and he had a face like an angry toad. Justin came close to hyperventilating the first time Theresa called Stahlek that.

“I asked the Division Chair that I be allowed to spend some time with family.” Sula was what Justin always thought Peter Pan would look like as a grown man.

“That must have made you popular.” Theresa reached out and touched the very tip of Sula’s elegantly pointed left ear. 

“While I am certain there is a deeper meaning to that statement, I would rather we not speak of Stahlek.” Sula had never been good at tempering his emotions when it came to his beloved wife. He didn’t smile or coo, nothing of that kind, but he let his expressive eyes shout that he was ass over teakettle in love with Theresa.

“I agree. We don’t want to talk about him either.” Livia returned to the table, a pint of bitter in her hand. “Even thinking about Mecha Toad Face gives a person indigestion, and we haven’t had lunch yet.”

The proprietor, Fintan O’Connor, stood behind the bar, greeting Sarek as he went to order drinks for himself and Amanda.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve had all of you here at once. Anymore, I only get you in twos and threes. Good to see you again, Ambassador.”

A slight nod toward the barkeep, “Fin.”

“I gotta admit, when you folks first started coming in, I thought it was pretty strange. Never imagined your malfunctioning satnav would gain me a whole troupe of customers for life.” First drink pulled, he started on the next. “And if you don’t mind me saying, I hope you throw the book at those bastards who hurt your son.”

“It may be more than _the book_.” Sarek collected his drinks and went off to find his wife.

Justin, who’d been waiting at the bar, pursed his lips in a scrunchy uh-oh. “I’m going to have to keep a tight leash on him.”

“He looks like the kind of guy who’s scary as hell when he’s mad.”

“You have no idea, Fin.” Justin decided on a soft drink since he was one of the drivers. Peering at his wife, who was still at the billiards table, she could put down a liter of bourbon and not have flushing to her face or any other affectation of the tipsy and/or drunk. “He’ll put up with a lot of shit and vulgar insults that humans would start swinging fists over. Try and fuck around with his family, let’s just say that diplomatic immunity is a blessing in this case.”

“Theresa said the kid was locked up in a shed on a bitterly cold December night and left to freeze to death?” O’Connor wasn’t about to try and understand what had gone on down there. “That if you weren’t there to save him, he would have died?”

“Truth be told, Spock saved himself.” Justin said.

“How does that work if he’s all tied up and suffering from hypothermia?”

“That little genius hacked the satnav-guided lawnmower that was in the shed and got a call off to me down at the Big House.” A sip of a cranberry juice and grapefruit soda mix made Justin think of the good things in life, events, people, and things that had effervescence and zing.

“Wow, I sure as hell wouldn’t know how to do that. I’d be a popsicle before I could get a lawnmower to call in a rescue.”

A back of house employee emerged with the first tray of food. Fintan told Justin to go and eat. The two of them could catch up on their bullshit some other time.

  
  
  
Plates, pitchers, dressings, condiments all made the rounds of the shoved together tables, people taking what they wanted and passing things on. When the cook came out with one more tray, Justin thought it was more potatoes and mushrooms.

“These only look like egg rolls.” She set tissue-lined baskets at appropriate intervals so no one had to pop a shoulder out of its socket to reach this new foodstuff. “Deep-fried cherry cheesecake rolls. I found the recipe in an ancient book when I was looking for some information on a dish Fin and Kelly wanted me to make for their parents’ anniversary next month.”

Miles went to stick his hand in a basket but pulled back. “Fresh.”

“Still melt your face off hot. When they’re cool enough to eat, tell me what you think. My husband and our boys thought they were fantastic.”

“Looks so bad for me, I can’t wait.” Miles acted like he was going to snag one. Theodore grabbed his hand, pulling it down.

“They’ll melt your fingers before you can get one up to your face.” Theodore’s amusement came from a lifetime of antics stirred up between him and Miles.

“They smell like a teeny loaf of heaven.” Miles tore into a slice of pizza.

“Sarek, is that an iced tea or an _iced tea_?” Livia smeared a potato wedge through a puddle of ketchup. She didn’t make it through the whole question before a zany grin took over.

The ambassador chose to keep silent on the matter, the only sound he made was when the ice in his glass tinkled.

“Oh lordy. We’re never going to live that down.” Theresa said while she disentangled one hand from her husband's so she could get in a few bites.

“All I’ve got to say is if that glass came filled to the brim with _iced tea_ that you’d better stop at one.” Livia half-snorted, bringing most of the humans at the table to the verge of laughter.

Mark, the newest married-in MacCormack was lost. “What’s so funny about iced tea?”

“Depends on who you ask.” Livia said. “And if it’s the actual stuff brewed from dried leaves instead of an insane mixture of booze.”

This being his first encounter with the legendary diplomat, Mark couldn’t be sure if it was acceptable to prompt for further explanation now that he had a better idea about the set-up of past shenanigans.

“This guy,” Livia pointed at Sarek, “is living testament as to why you don’t go out and get absolutely shit-faced after receiving a Dear John letter.”

Amanda smirked. “This was long before I ever knew him.”

“It was not a Dear John letter as such.” T’Lal clarified. “It was a legal document informing him that his wife had divorced him. T’Rhea was—”

“ _Not a very nice person_.” Livia finished for her sister-in-law. “Hand-delivered to the consulate in LA, a surprise divorce decree for Diplomatic Attache Sarek, he was facing down his first Christmas here on earth by spending it dejected and alone.”

“I did not understand at the time that the divorce was one of the best things to have ever happened to me. I was young, four months into an indeterminate stint here on earth, it was an insult on top of culture shock.” Sarek did not have any reason to reflect on those first sixteen weeks on earth with any fondness.

“He called me up and asked me if he could come over.” Livia had lost the sly glaze to her eyes and while she was still smiling, it had converted over to a compassionate tone.

“Livia, Theresa, and T’Lal were the only friends I had at the time.” The circumstances under which he’d enlisted in the Diplomatic Corps and shipped out were tragic. The abrupt shift in career trajectories also had him unmoored.

“He came round to mine, I looked over the letter, and like humans tend to do, I went into that ‘you can’t be alone right now’ mode we adopt when those close to us are—”

“Dumped on our arses like sacks of manure.” Theresa, pensive, finished off a potato wedge.

“Last-second, I invited him to be my date to the Band Banquet that night.” Livia shook her head at the memories.

“USC’s marching band does a big formal at the end of every season. Crazy college musicians, alcohol, alcohol, live music, awards, dancing, alcohol, my wife is the only person I know who drinks to have ever emerged from the event where she could walk in a straight line.” Justin marveled at T’Lal and thought to himself how he was such a lucky man to have her.

“Mr. Low Man on the Totem Pole somehow managed to wrangle a staff car that night, he picked me up, and on the short jaunt from campus to the Bonaventure Hotel downtown, this poor guy’s day went from shitty to a full-blown backed-up septic tank.” The story put on hold for a moment while she got a couple sips of water, Justin remembered when he first heard about that year’s band banquet. Things could have ended so much worse than they did.

“He proposed to me.” Livia shared a glance with Sarek that showed they both found humor in this now that time had tempered the embarrassment. “Of course I shot him down. He hadn’t realized I was gay.”

That did get a laugh out of all the humans around the table.

“So that’s just happened, then I take him into a big room with some four hundred loud, happy, on their way to inebriated humans. My section mates wouldn’t stop staring at him because he was—”

“Vulcan?” Mark ventured, probably worried this was devolving into a racist incident that somehow featured iced tea.

Theresa tisked and let whimsy envelop her features. “ _Because he was so fucking handsome_. I suppose I do have to hand it to the flutes sometimes. Every once in a while they’ve got good taste in something.”

“Open bar before dinner, I grabbed a drink to help me loosen up from that left-field marriage proposal. Sarek asked me for the same as whatever I was having. He didn’t know dick about our bar offerings, save for a little bit about wine. That was Long Island number one.” Livia said.

“Awards ceremony, speeches, all that shit taken care of, I don’t know how many of the boozy delights he’d downed by the time the tables got pushed back and the dancing began.” Theresa took over at this point. “Bar still open, I was getting drunk for the sheer fun of it, shouting and flapping about with the rest of the percussion when Liv took me aside and explained the why of our diplomatic friend’s appearance at the banquet. I’d thought it odd but not so odd as to go poking around. When she was through, I asked what he’d been drinking, and did what humans do in these situations, and went into that ‘fuck it, let’s get rat-arsed and forget about that bitch!’ mode. I brought him back a double.”

Pieces started to slot together in Mark’s head. “Oh no.”

“From that point, my memory is, we’ll call it _hazy_ , and by the time another ninety minutes had gone by, Livia was already passed out in Danica Parker’s room, probably with Danica’s legs still wrapped around her neck—” Theresa sporfled, trying not to laugh.

“Could be.” Livia shrugged. “Don’t know, too drunk.”

“From the bits and bobs I could cobble together later on, I did some damned fine table dancing, screeched about his now ex-wife being a stupid, selfish, whore, and proceeded to slam three shots of tequila. _Lime and salt are for pussies_.”

Livia started off the next segment of the story. “I woke up the next day with a hangover, but that was nothing that a breakfast down at The Pantry wasn’t going to cure. I headed off with six or seven other flutes and we stumbled on in, mussed-up ballgowns and smeared makeup, and shoveled in as many pancakes as our stomachs could hold.”

“Whereas I woke up the next day having to pee so bad I nearly wet the bed. As I was washing my hands, it occurred to me, I had no idea who I’d fucked the previous night. I don’t know whose room I’m in. My clothes were. . . somewhere. I thought if I was quiet that I could get dressed and escape before anyone could catch me doing the walk of shame. Tip-toe to the window, open the drapes a sliver, I thought I’d caught the sparkle of my dress wadded up in the bed beneath some man. It’s a damned good thing I’d taken a wee before examining who’d been tangled up in my gown.” Theresa pointed to the revered ambassador. “And there he was, sporting only his birthday suit, alcohol still oozing from every pore, dead to the fucking world. The two thoughts in my head were: _Shit_! _How do I get my dress from under him_? And, _My god, he’s got a nice ass_.”

At that, the table fully erupted. Amanda, laughing so hard tears gathered in the outer corners of her eyes, set her hand on her husband’s shoulder. “That’s why we tease about making him stop at one _iced tea_.”

“I don’t even want to think about the sheer amount of alcohol it would take to get someone like him blackout drunk." Theresa said. "First and last time for a night like that, am I right?”

Sarek replied to Theresa’s comment, “Last, as in, never again. I do not know why such an extensive number of humans keep chasing and repeating that profound loss of control.”

“Full development and cohesion of the frontal lobes and regulation of the pre-frontal cortex in the human brain doesn’t occur until the mid-twenties. So, for the university-age crowd, it’s a matter of poor judgement as brought on by immature brain structures. Start talking about people who are our age now, that’s where you’ve got me. Some just like the feeling. Me, I’m too old to get that drunk anymore.” Livia trotted out those factoids from her background as a neuropsionic healer.

“For you to have forgotten an hours-long swathe of that evening, Sa-pi-maat, you would have had to consume thirty-six units of alcohol per hour for a period of approximately four hours. That is enough to have killed a human man of your stature.” T’Lal picked up a second slice of pizza. She deliberately left out any other details on why Sarek may have had such a reaction to ethanol.

“People can’t give you shit about being an absolute teetotaler, we know the truth.” Livia went after one of the cheesecake rolls.

Mark tensed. Were things still in a lighter mood? “What’s that? Vulcans can get drunk if they drown themselves in enough whiskey?”

Livia stopped short of taking a bite of her dessert. “That you shouldn’t get shit-faced after getting a Dear John letter. . .”

  
  
  
Lunch had lifted people’s moods. Out in the car park, the group broke up and went off to varied private vehicles. T’Lal, who’d come with Theresa left with Justin and Spock’s parents, allowing her sister-in-law some time with Sula. T’Lal got into the driver’s seat, of course, and asked where they were going.

Justin said he didn’t know. “Do you want to see your boy first, get some rest, and visit the San Bernardino Sheriff tomorrow?”

“Let us be done with this ordeal.” Sarek said. “I do not want Ben and Shelby to weigh on our time while we are here.”

“You heard the man. We’re off to Big Bear.” Justin coughed the moment his wife started the car. At an angle where their passengers couldn’t see, she’d let drift her right hand and danced her fingers down the inseam of his left thigh. (Something tells me we’re both going to need some of that after we’ve finished with things down there.)

(The talk of the Band Banquet has me remembering the first one I attended. One might say you and I had a bit of fun afterwards.)

(And I like fun.)

  
  
  
Now on his third and hopefully final trip to the Wright-Grayson vacation home, Justin checked the back-up camera for the SO deputies. “Remember, they’re letting us be out here as a courtesy so you can pick up the rest of Spock’s things. Don’t do anything stupid.”

From a reflection in the glass above the side-view mirror/camera, Justin kept tabs on Sarek. Each kilometer closer to the scene of the crime, he’d seen the statesman tense up, fighting like hell to keep his temper in check. This would go well or not at all was the conclusion the non-practicing attorney drew.

“Where did they go? I thought they were following us?” Amanda turned to see if the patrol car was coming up the drive. Still, there was no one.

“Give me a second.” Justin placed his hand on the center console and wove a fine stream of his conscious psionic energy through the chips and circuits to the vehicle’s computer core. Like any day at work, he set about manipulating the machine with his mind, sorting through the frequencies the car used to communicate with satellites, traffic signals, and other cars to jump bands and scour police and fire communications. “Report of a probable arson fire at an old building that’s apparently a popular hang-out for local teens. . . Thought to be four or five kids in the structure. All hands report. . .”

Justin snapped himself out of the machine and said, “We have to wait or try again tomorrow—”

Before Justin finished his comment, the front door of the house shot open and Ben hopped out onto the porch. The once favored cousin-turned-abuser started shouting and swearing, threatening to shoot first and call the cops later.

“You’re screwed now, Mindfucker!” Ben used the slur as he still didn’t know Justin’s name.

At that, Amanda got out of the car. “Ben, what is this?”

“Stay out of this, Mandy.” Ben paced and Amanda closed the distance by a meter or so.

“Where is the kind boy, the kind man, that I used to know?” She was going to try to defuse the situation and get to the heart of what had stolen her once close relative and friend and replaced him with a corrupt copy.

A pinch to the bridge of his nose, then hand down, Ben started on a sob story, where he voiced his malcontent at all the aliens, mutants, and mindfuckers who’d taken over his home planet. “Then you had to go and marry one of those assholes. You’re the one who’s changed, Mandy, not me.”

“Oh, Ben, this isn’t you.” She tried to tease out the person she’d once known. “The real you wouldn’t have hurt my son.”

“That Frankensteinian horror you birthed as demanded of you by those green-blooded devils is nothing more than a failed science experiment, Mandy.” Ben shouted something over his shoulder to Shelby, who was bitching in the background. “That kid is a monster!”

“Oh, fuck!” Justin took off running after Sarek. The diplomat had bailed out of the backseat and stormed after that pathetic man-thing hollering on the porch. Knowing that talking reason was out the proverbial window because who the hell could be truly logical in the face of near-fatal harm befalling your child, Justin had no choice but to physically stop Sarek from racing up those steps and keep him from turning Ben into a scattered pink mist.

Elevation and cold air left his lungs afire. In a hark back to his days as a high school athlete, Justin gauged the various routes where he might cut Sarek off. Decision quickly made, he sprinted toward a snow-covered picnic table. A superhero-worthy leap and he was on the Vulcan’s back, throwing the center of gravity, and dumping the both of them into the snow.

“Sarek, stop!” Justin barely ducked a fist. A scuffle the human knew he’d lose broke out, The ambassador’s anger and pain at this situation knew no bounds. “Goddamnit!”

A mistimed wallop clipped Justin’s shoulder. He gave it his all and swung back. Writhing and rolling in the snow, they snarled and spat, Sarek belting out, “ _They tried to murder my child_!”

Something popped in Justin’s face and blood started to pour. Shoved onto his back and rolling over onto his knees, he scurried after the much-stronger man. If this didn’t end, now, Ben Wright-Grayson would die. Justin decided to make his old football coach proud. He tackled Sarek, both of them crashed onto the snowy lawn again. They thrashed about, knuckles popping and cloth tearing.

Knowing he had no physical recourse in controlling the Vulcan, Justin had one thing at his disposal. Grabbing hold of Sarek’s chin, the human thrust a bolt of neuron disrupting psi energy straight into his friend’s brain.

  
  
  
Seated on top of the picnic table, holding handfuls of snow to their bruised faces, the two men stayed outside while their wives were escorted into the house by law enforcement. Ben and Shelby were hauled out of the home, bellowing about abuse of police powers and wrongful arrest. The kids were none too pleased that they were now spending the night as guests of San Bernardino County’s Social Services.

As they were cursed and sworn at by the two supposed adults of the Wright-Grayson household, Justin granted himself a chuckle that while appropriate, set off the stupendous pain in the spot between his eyes where the root of his nose came down from his face. Flinging a bloody snowball off to the side, the police cruiser’s doors shut, the women and other cops still in the house, Justin looked his friend dead in the eye.

Sarek lowered his hands, showing off his swollen green cheek, blackening eye, and the bruises/fingernail gouges where he’d been grabbed. “I do not know what to say to you.”

“I get it, those horrid fucks hurt your baby. . .” Justin trailed off.

“Where does one begin to apologize—”

“The only reason you’re not a murderer at this very moment is that I’m a stronger psion than you are. That’s it.” Justin didn’t want a sorry from this man. What was the point? He couldn’t take the moral high ground here either because he didn’t know if he’d been able to temper himself if he was in Sarek’s position. “ _Don’t you ever fucking make me do this again_.”

A nod, an understanding between two fathers.

“Good.” Justin said.

  
  
  
Hidden in the tractor barn, Livia and Theresa got Justin and Sarek mostly healed and patched up. They didn’t want their sons seeing them looking like a couple of prizefighters. No one had anything to say until Grandma Nora arrived and got a rundown of this most recent Big Bear adventure.

Handheld scanner out, she passed the device around Sarek’s head. “I wouldn’t have stopped you.”

The girls froze in place, not entirely sure if what they heard Nora say was right. Justin was thrown by the comment. Again, logic was an academic concept when faced with the abuse of children.

“I examined your son within thirty minutes of his arrival. . . People who choose to hurt children, who enjoy hurting children, there is no redemption for the adults. They will go on to do this again.” She clicked a button on her machine and let it process the results. “I wouldn’t have stopped you.”

  
  
  
The men made it into the house only after Miles went out to the barn and spent a couple of hours and the three of them had some beers, threw some darts, and unwound. The kids were in bed and everyone else was in the dining room finishing up the decor for the party Nora was hosting the next evening.

Justin led Sarek up to the sleeping porch so he might at least see his boy that day. The Vulcan stood near the cot Spock shared with Mollie and watched them sleep for a moment. “It has never been my intent to fail him, Justin.”

“I know.”

“And yet, I have.” He extended a hand toward his child, wanting to touch, not connecting. “I will continue to do so.”

“Come on, let’s—” Justin guided his friend into the same lounge where he’d done the rudimentary alterations on the robes Spock and Mollie wore to the Community Dinner.

“Justin, I once believed, naively, that I would mature into the role of being a father. Innate ability would emerge from within and I might be a fraction as good at this as you are.”

“Don’t do this to yourself, Sarek.” Justin tried to warn him off.

“I am as ineffectual with Spock as my own father was with me.” He regarded his slightly bruised knuckles. “I wanted better for my son.”

  
  
  
On the verge of slipping into a warm post-coital coma, Justin, T’Lal brought him back around when she returned to bed having put on a set of thermal pajamas. He wanted to roll onto his left side and engage in some pillow talk. Bruised ribs on that side told him to stay on his back or sit with his upper body propped against the headboard. He winced as he bent at the waist and shoved himself upright. “I’m sorry I made you do all the work.”

“Do not be.” She said before drawing him into a kiss. “I should have let you recover longer before stressing your body like I did.”

The endorphin spike had yet to leave him. He still felt that pleasant glow and thanked the woman beside him. This was far from the first time where he wondered how drastically his life would have turned out by not having T’Lal and thus not having his son. It was a quasiconscious exercise in the expression of gratitude, of which he had an endless supply for certain people. There was a degree or two for Deena March. If not for her plotting and lies, Justin would never have set down the path that directed him to T’Lal as a romantic interest, where he viewed her as more than his sisters’ friend.

“I wish to thank you, sausu t’maut-klon’es.”

She called him a brilliant man. Justin thought he was no such thing and reminded her each time she trotted out that label for him. Like explaining to Fintan O’Connor that Spock rescued himself, Justin believed a man should be humble and hard-working. “What are you thanking me for?”

“You saved Sarek today. I am not speaking of him in general, you saved the genuine man beneath the facade he’s forced to adopt because T’Pau is so stringent in how her family should behave. If that had been Tralnor in that shed. . . I hesitate to think what horror I would be capable of.” Like they had that morning, T’Lal wrapped herself around Justin, cocooning him against the world.

“Never think that I wasn’t sorely tempted to let him rip Ben’s limbs off before beating Shelby to death with her husband’s bloody stumps.”

“You stopped him.”

“Yeah.” He’d never been hit by a Vulcan before. It was like receiving a blow from a warp-powered cannonball. “What if I hadn’t? What if I didn’t have the oomph to psionically short him out and drop him to the ground?”

“You would have gone down while doing the right thing.”

It was really starting to hurt to breathe now. The buzz of making love was wearing off. T’Lal gently set her fingers to specific spots on his face where she sent him off on a deserved slumber as part of an induced healing trance.

***

Spock emerged from the meditation he’d used to take a deeper dive into the memories Justin had given him. Tonight was the first time he’d hit on this particular pocket of experiences because until that day, he’d not had much interest in what Sarek was like outside of formal gatherings and their tense home life.

There was an additional undercurrent to the involvement of his father, a detail purposely clipped out, Unable to assess its importance, Spock decided not to dwell on it. As Sarek was never speaking to him again, what sense was there in trying to eke out that hidden trait?

While he still defaulted to the Clan Surak mindset of caring what people thought of him, he’d long ago cast off Sarek’s opinions. There was no such thing as good enough in his father’s world. If he delved deeper into the ambassador’s life and learned why the man was so hesitant to get closer to his child, Spock might understand his father, might relate to his father, but his mother’s wish that a truce and coordinating forgiveness from and to both of them was Sysiphian in nature and unobtainable.

Out at his desk, he tried again to write the Christmas letter that would brighten Amanda’s heart. A first attempt resulted in a salutation and an entirely blank page. The next, the prose was so generic as to sound like he’d plagiarized it from a pre-fabricated greeting card. Five-hundred words and he’d said exactly nothing.

Fresh from his examination of the unknown, fingers perched over the keyboard, he reached for a switch and turned the computer terminal off. The drawer containing his copy of _Shane_ was also home to the stationery he used to correspond with Joe. Ink on paper, he could transcribe this letter at a later time.

Pen hovering above silky cotton bond, he drew the nib across the sheet, and got as far as a date and _Dear Mother_.

Seconds unwound and he started to write, but it was not a holiday missive, nor was it necessarily a piece for Amanda. Free flow of thought, no conditions set for structure, topic, or pace.

 _While I cannot deny that Justin was telling the truth about my father’s willingness to fight for my life, the unsure part of my mind, the suspicious part, wants to know why Sarek would kill a man in retribution for nearly murdering me_?

 _If given an outlet where I had the leeway to ask Sarek that question and others that have crept into my head over the years, I believe I would pose three other points: You love my mother. You are_ in love _with my mother. Therefore, you are capable of demonstrating more than primal parental urges to protect your offspring. What is missing in me, or both of us, that you choose to show affection for your wife, but not for her child_?

_I would not ask why Mother allows your behavior, as you are a difficult man to coexist with in ideal moments. She still has to live with you. I do not._

_Second point: You voiced your dissatisfaction with my enrollment at Starfleet Academy. It is ultimately why we have built a barrier of silence, finding ways to exist outside one another’s orbit. You lectured me over the years, warning that I not act too human lest I become one of them. I learned this evening that the activities and people you vilified in terms of my development are ones that you were a part of. If I asked you, this moment, why you got blackout drunk and slept with a family friend, I do not think it speculative on my behalf that you might say intoxication was not your goal that evening and having intercourse with your friend was allowable because the woman in your bed was a MacCormack. As such, she was not seen as human enough to threaten your psychological health._

_Third point: I declare that you were a figurehead in my life, merely the man who sired me. You were not home long enough to have raised me, you demonstrated the Vulcan paradigm which I was expected to exemplify. Justin showed me how to tie a Windsor knot, taught me to play guitar, and showed me how to drive, flogging Nora’s cookie van up and down the rows of peach trees one summer. He instilled in me that if I got to know you the way he knew you, as a friend, that I would understand your motives and actions._

_It was your cousin’s husband, a man who is also now my friend, with whom I had my first adult conversation about sex. Justin answered what he could to the best of his abilities, then he had to refer me to you. When I tried to broach those intimate subjects, you shut me out. Tralnor has divested more information to me on that topic than you or anyone from our Golic family._

_Upon my graduation from Starfleet Academy, I was given the Van-Kal t’Dorli Kadvin by T’Lal. As my father, as the highest-ranking Clan Surak male of your generation it was your duty to see me through the_ Ceremony of Honorable Commission _. I am still grateful to her as I never anticipated my participation in such an ancient rite. She was the only person of sufficient rank and experience to administer the ceremony, and it was, of course, Clan Lyr Saan’s version as she is no longer of Clan Surak_.

 _You and I have developed bitter exteriors regarding one another. Silence communicates more effectively than words_. . .

 _Father, it was Justin who taught me not to hate you, that all men have flaws_ —

The paper made a crackling noise as Spock wadded it in his hand. He made for the bathroom where he tore up the sheet into unrecognizable confetti, flushing it down the commode.


	10. Chapter 10

Wow! Chapter Ten, and I can't believe the fantastic response I've had to this turned-out-to-be-a-novel. While I didn't have a word count in mind, just a beginning/middle/end points figured, I'm pleased about how well this is turning out. I wasn't sure how well a story about the characters as children would play. Thank you for reading and commenting.

  
  
  


“ _Jingle-jingle-jingle-j-j-j—_ ” Deep breath. “Jingle!”

“Captain, you have claimed that you have no musical abilities.” Spock would be thankful when they were delivered to the bridge. Hopefully, Kirk’s improvised holiday carols mercifully stopped when the lift doors opened.

“And I don’t. _Jingle-jingle-jingle. All. The. Way_!” A charming smirk, one the captain had long weaponized against the ladies he was attracted to, was not meant that way for Spock.

 _Social lubricant. He doesn’t know he’s caught your attention in that way_. Spock didn’t need to see the control panel to know what deck they sped through, but he looked so he might have a reason to not stare after the captain.

“Happy Christmas!” James Kirk hollered to the bridge and followed his announcement, beaming. “This is going to be one of the best days ever. Helm, where are we? Communications, where does Command say we should be?”

While Spock was not one to attribute much to the brand of hyperbole that Kirk subscribed to, it was going to be a good day. The science station was clean and not reeking of rot.

Logged in and taking care of an administrative task, he read the first two lines of Command’s newest missive regarding taxonomical classifications before he was surrounded on three sides by off-key, phased, screeching and moaning that was supposedly the rest of the bridge crew offering a rendition of We Wish You a Merry Christmas.

Such was life amongst humans, he supposed.

  
  
  
Finalizing Ensign Chalmers’ transfer paperwork, Spock was appreciative of the relative silence post impromptu caroling. He proofread the narrative section of the form, found it was composed of his usual dry technical prose, and was in the middle of saving the document so he could send a copy to his own inbox when the Security Alert _bong-bong_ sounded overhead and the bridge crew was party to the unsettling noises of people gagging and being sick.

Kirk called out, requesting that whoever pulled the alarm report, but it was clear from the unsettling morass of splatting and retching carrying over the air that whoever was on the other end was incapable of saying a word. “Lt. Uhura, where is this—.”

“Cargo Bay 2, Sir.” She started telling him before he finished asking.

Spock’s mind immediately went to caustic chemicals, things accidentally combining to create a mustard gas or something similar. Did the callers set off a capsaicin device meant to deter dock thieves? “According to the readings, there are four humanoid lifeforms in the cargo bay.”

“ _Humanoid_? Let’s narrow that down. I hesitate to think that one of our guys would leave his shipmates in such a state.” On his feet, to the upper deck of the bridge, Kirk stopped momentarily behind Spock, standing so close it was possible to feel the human’s body heat and take in his proprietary scent.

Spock got the computer to recalibrate and do a secondary scan, searching for lifeforms that were not of the species that made up the Enterprise’s crew. The results took seventeen-and-a-half seconds longer than they should have, an issue he’d have to remedy at a later date, and he had a call line open to bioarch before the description filled out the screen. “Lt. Commander Sha’leyen, report to Cargo Bay 2. We have a juvenile guhsh-spa’ra that has revealed itself in there.”

When the bioarchaeologist groaned, an honest, emotional reaction that told of how abhorrent this thing in the cargo bay was, that got people more concerned than they were to this point. “ _Merry Fucking Christmas, everyone_! Sha’leyen, out.”

  
  
  
Kirk, who went on a footrace after the Vulcan, had a momentary flash of confusion when they were getting off the lift and surging onto the deck that housed Cargo Bay 2. “Hold up, Spock. Are you going to tell me what this thing is?”

“It is the end of your best day ever, Captain.”

“Yeah, I figured that.”

From a side corridor, Sha’leyen stepped out and kept pace with her immediate superior. “Do we know where this thing crawled into our cozy boat unnoticed?”

“Given its physical maturity, I believe the pod was transferred nine days ago when we put in at Sable Alpha IV.”

Spock’s single-mindedness left Kirk with a heavy presence in his gut. That extra nervous system was working the captain like a piano tuner cranking and testing all eighty-eight strings at once.

“Will someone take pity on the ship’s captain and explain this, whatever this is?” Forced to a halt by his two science officers, he did his best to brace for impact.

“Before you go any further, Sir, you’ll want to put on a rebreather mask.” Sha’leyen opened a junction panel and popped in and out of a janitorial supply closet, one of the said masks in hand.

Starting the motion to stretch the elastic straps around his head, it was more than a smell. He got clobbered by a stench so overpowering he could taste its rank sulphur elements. Hot garbage, one-hundred spraying skunks, putrid corpses, open sewers, all of those together couldn’t equal the molecules his nose, and body, translated into an acute bout of projectile vomiting.

“You do not have to accompany us, Captain.” Spock said. “Sha’leyen and I can dispatch our stowaway.”

“No, damnit. I’m—” Kirk struggled to come up for air.

“Sir, it’s probably for the best if you keep an eye on us from the bridge. It’ll certainly be easier on your stomach.”

“I need to see this thing. It’s _almost_ the worst thing I’ve ever smelled.” He wasn’t going to get into the event that topped his list.

“Very well, Sir.” Spock led on.

“There were two Belonite freighters docked near us at Sable. The second was running a Vulcan reg. That must be where it came from. Your thoughts, Mr. Spock?” Sha’leyen had Jim take off his uniform tunic, wipe his face with it, and tossed it down the nearest disposal chute.

“That is my presumption as well.”

“So, Captain, we’re dealing with a creature that is known in Ancient Golic as a Trash Eater. The closest thing I can compare it to in terms of an earth animal is that it’s part trash panda—”

“Part what?” He’d never heard of such a thing and he’d grown up on earth. “Trash panda?”

Sha’leyen blinked and scoured her brain. “Bandit cat? I think it’s what you call a cat. It has the stripes, the long tail, the little creepy eyes, _cat_? This is the one that loves rubbish, not the scaly, hissy one with the red eyes.”

A profound awareness that these two officers weren’t human settled on Kirk. Oh, the difference those minute details could make. “That’s a lot of cats.”

“It’s also not the one that was used as a croquet ball in the children’s stories.”

“I think I know what you’re talking about.” _He had no fucking clue_.

“The best way I can think to characterize this entity is by borrowing the description of a paleocryptid as detailed to me by an evolutionary bioarchaeologist I met at a conference in Seattle. He told me about a possibly not-so-mythical hominid called skunk ape.”

Kirk laughed, choked on a refluxing splash of bile, and coughed/laughed/leaned against a bulkhead to keep from falling down. “There’s a half-tabby cat/half-bigfoot in the cargo bay?”

High pitched and booming at the same time, a noise issued from the whatever, that rumbled down the hall. “GLAAAAAAHK! GUUUUUUUUUUL!”

“ _Catsquatch_.” Jim hacked. “We’ve been invaded by a loud, stinky catsquatch.”

“GLAAAAAAHK! AAAHK!”

One of the men who’d been puking his guts up over the intercom call with the bridge had recovered to the point he could flee the bay. “It’s horrible!”

Slick black splotches on the man’s red tunic could have been anything from crude petroleum to caviar. He staggered just beyond Kirk and his party. Jim stopped the guy. “Describe it, Crewman.”

“Sir, it—we found it as we were taking a manual inventory. It was eating things out of containers. There’s shi—I mean stuff strung all over in there. And the smell. . .”

“GLAAAAAHK!”

The crewman whimpered at the vocalization. “ _Oh, fu_ —”

“GUUUUUUUUL!” The sound of equipment and crates being flung about made this all the better.

“The Trash Eaters are most active around Vulcan’s winter solstice. They’re not necessarily dangerous, just disgusting.” Sha’leyen stopped within hand’s reach of Spock. “They cause a lot of property damage.”

“Dodging catsquatch and hiding from violent criminals, this is what your people had to look forward to every year?” Kirk ground his teeth against another chorus of caterwauling.

“It was, Sir.” Spock sent a grave look to Sha’leyen.

“I daresay this is one of those times that humans—Oh fuck!” It wailed and shot a stream of tarry sludge at one of the two personnel still stuck in the bay.

Almost a full two meters in height, catsquatch was what Kirk would have envisioned a real-life swamp monster might look like. It had a vaguely bipedal appearance and lurched along. He couldn’t discern a mouth on its grotesque head until it called out and both top and bottom jaws revealed three rows of pointed teeth.

“Those teeth, those look dangerous, Lt. Commander.”

“They’re for gnawing through hard objects like walls and metal containers to retrieve the organic matter inside.” She shook her head at the approaching security team, some of whom were getting ill as they approached. “The situation is being handled. It’s best if you return to your barracks.”

“No can do, Ma’am.” A young man unholstered his hand phaser.

“Hit it with the stun and you’re going to piss it off. You don’t want that.” She said.

“Set ‘em to kill, boys.” The leader of this particular contingent of red shirts directed.

“Do not do that either.” She countered.

“No phasers.” Spock solved the issue and silenced any objections with a stern look.

Lt. Faber peered at Kirk, seeking a change in approach. Jim said, “If they say no phasers on catsquatch, no phasers.”

“The kill setting will cause it to boil internally and explode.” Spock gave a slight pause. “You do not want that.”

“GLAAAAAHK!”

“So what are we supposed to do?” Faber was annoyed.

“Whatever Spock and Sha’leyen tell you to do.” Kirk nipped this pissing contest in the bud.

The two science officers had an exchange in Vulcan, neither of them dropping any hints as to what they were thinking.

“GLAAAAAHK! GUUUUUUUUUUUL!”

“Lt. Faber.” Spock got the pouting security man’s attention.

“Yes, Sir?”

“You and two of your men go to the kitchens and find any spoiled food, leftovers, and items on the verge of turning. Pour them into one of the tilt kettles, add twenty liters of white vinegar, bring it to a boil. When it is at a rolling boil, add the contents of the grease traps. When that is all combined, bring it down here.” Spock didn’t acknowledge that the concoction he’d asked for was as gross, possibly more so than the catsquatch. “Remaining security personnel, escort Lt. Commander Sha’leyen to sick bay, full override, and return her to us here as swiftly as possible.”

“Talprozamide Hydrochloride and Storlacton Acid Isolate?” She rattled off the names of the two drugs like they weren’t hellish tongue twisters.

“And enquire with Dr. McCoy to see if he has a supply of Parisix.”

“He does not. I thought I might need some after our encounter with the Bat’lan a couple of weeks ago.” She took off at a hard run, her escorts chasing after.

“So, we wait for this mess to come to us?” Kirk wasn’t finding this a satisfactory outcome, even in the face of knowing he didn’t know how to handle this thing. _Trust Spock_ , he reminded himself. “Where did this catsquatch come from?”

“In Vulcan’s distant, war-addled past, the Trash Eaters were developed as beasts of burden. A creature to do a lot of the so-called heavy lifting promised to give relief to the support staffs and lower enlisted ranks of the military bodies of the time. Trash Eaters had opposable thumbs and another built-in beneficial feature. They would consume refuse instead of viable food sources that people needed to survive. The creatures lacked the intelligence or trainability to make them useful for the reason they were created. Rather than destroy the beings wholesale, they were set loose into the wilds of my home planet—”

“GUUUUUUUL! GLAAAAAHK-AAAAAHK!” Then the disturbing scratching, sucking, and compromising metal sounds came from the catsquatch’s location. It was tearing into another cargo container.

“How exactly did this thing make it onto the Enterprise?” He was still coming to terms with learning this monster was purpose-built.

“They reproduce asexually by depositing pods wherever they have the opportunity. When a Trash Eater hatches, it consumes almost every edible thing it can fit into its mouth. They show up on ships because their dormant pods are moved with crops from the harvest zone to the cargo containers.”

“What caused this one to hatch?” It lit into a store of white flour and started, Kirk guessed, sneezing. This sent great plumes of the staple airborne.

“It is the right time of year.”

***

“It’s not exactly the right time of year for baseball, but we’re going to make the best of it.” Miles had his boys in tow, all bearing some sort of equipment needed to play the game. They’d acquired these things as part of their participation in Little League.

Spock picked up a ball and put the mitt on his left hand. The lesson started with tossing the ball up in the air and catching it, a one-person venture. He went through the rules of the game as explained by Jason and John last night, understood the math of the game, the physics and geometry of throwing, hitting, runners, foul balls, but theoretical discussions were incapable of communicating the _snap/thump_ of the red-stitched ball colliding and seating in the palm of the glove.

Before too long, he was partnered with Jason where they took turns throwing the ball back and forth. He described and demonstrated the proper way to handle the ball to make it go exactly where he wanted. There was some talk about aerodynamics, when to completely release your fingers, and how to put a spin on it from the pitcher’s mound.

Tralnor was doing the same activity, Martin handing-off knowledge. They made it five minutes when the flock arrived. The free-ranging hens descended on him, searching the ground at his feet for food.

“The chicken house is empty. Someone go get the eggs.” Tralnor, done with baseball for the moment sat down, damp field soaking the seat of his jeans, and he pet the birds.

“He’s the pied piper of barnyard fowl.” Jason said. “Fowl as in birds, not a ball going over the line.”

The hens made pleasant noises, their meet and greet going on for a time while a couple of the older kids stepped away to collect eggs. The mantra for the rest of the afternoon daylight was run, throw, hit, don’t step on a chicken!

Justin gave an excellent demo of a shortstop at work. Visual and physical references meshed together, the game was a cohesive reality for Spock. Assess the pitcher and how they let go of their throw, gauge speed and the amount of energy needed to counter the ball’s forward trajectory, determine if the ball can be hit, and if so, take into account your team’s needs as extrapolated from players on bases, where in the lineup you are, the skill and ability of the opposing team, this baseball was certainly an interesting activity. A great deal of the outcome was controllable by the individual participants, but it was the unknown that gave the game its edge. He had a better understanding of teamwork, learning that a cohesive approach to team strategy helped control for the desired result. Some things, no matter how synced with fellow players you were, one had no bearing on, like chickens in the infield.

When it was almost too dark for the humans to see, they cleaned up the sporting goods and the children went upstairs to get ready for Nora’s party. Guests would begin to arrive in a few short hours.

***

“There’s not going to be enough tomato juice in the sector to get the smell out!” McCoy complained over the ship’s comm. He’d sent Sha’leyen and the security boys back to the cargo bay and immediately went bitching to Jim. “What the hell are you doing down there?”

“GUUUUUUUUUUUUL!”

“Jim—”

“Not now, Bones.” Kirk tried to play off the doctor.

“AAAAAAAAHK! GLAAAAAHK-GUUUUUL!”

“Spock will you please let me in on your plan. How long is it going to take to restrain this thing?” Kirk returned his attention to the comm panel. “Bones—”

“You’re going to make me invoke my status as ship’s physician. If I think you’re in danger or possibly a danger to yourself and others, I can order you to tell me what in the living daylights is screaming in the background.”

“Oh, you’re going to love this.” Jim faced the Vulcan, raised his brow in expectation of an answer to his recent question.

“If you were to run interference for Lt. Commander Sha’leyen and I, this can be resolved faster than just the two of us working to take it down.” Spock seemed wary of his own suggestion.

“Damnit, Jim!” The doctor was mere millimeters away from flipping his lid. “I’m coming down there.”

“No, you’re not! Stay in sick bay.” The captain didn’t need to have McCoy underfoot while catsquatch was still on the loose. The line was quiet, too quiet. “Bones?”

“I believe he is now on his way.” Spock said.

“That’s the last thing we need.”

  
  
  
McCoy’s jaw did a little jiggle at the sight of the creature in Cargo Bay 2. Kirk was sure if Bones let his eyes bug out any more, he’d have to pick them up off the floor. “I’ve seen some interesting things in my day fellas, but this is a new level of unpleasant even for me.”

“You know how on earth, we’ve got reindeer, polar bears, and the abominable snowman?” Kirk was working on a doozy of a headache. All the screaming and hurling of heavy objects he would think.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” McCoy didn’t disguise the suspicion he felt. He probably thought Spock had something to do with the Trash Eater.

“So, what you’re seeing in there, Bones, is the Vulcan equivalent of the cuddly Christmas creatures you and I grew up with.”

“Galloping Gertie, you’re shitting me.” Incredulous, he said, “Now why is it that every time we come across something from your planet that its a secret-wrapped enigma pie or it wants to kill us?”

It had broken into another palate of shelf-stable groceries. This time catsquatch slurped and hacked its way through hundreds of kilos of dried pasta and legumes. Coming up for breath, it exercised its lungs, and rattled off two of the three words/sounds/calls that it knew.

“GLAAAAHK! GLAAAAHK-GUUUUUL!”

“Doctor, what are you doing here?” Sha’leyen was back, now dressed in a moisture repellent boiler-suit, hair and neck shielded by a balaclava, and what was best described as a set of ski goggles ready to pull down over her eyes.

“I’m trying to figure out what all the excitement is over.” He shot an accusatory index finger at catsquatch. “And learn the story behind the Creature from the La Brea Tar Pits. Ugh, that sound. . .”

Pinto beans and fusilli pasta crunched in its teeth approximating the tune as put out by a cement mixer. Sha’leyen had her escorts hand off a gym bag to Spock. It contained two of the same outfits that she was wearing.

“That’s what took me so long. I wanted to make sure we had rudimentary protection.” From a zippered pocket, she pulled out what Kirk assumed were the medicines she’d listed off.

“How did you fight these off back on Vulcan?” Kirk gratefully stuffed himself into the one-piece coverall.

“Bonfires work well.” She said. “As do flamethrowers.”

“So, what are you supposed to do when you’re in an environment where fires are a bad idea?”

“If you’re not averse to the smell lingering forever, go ahead, shoot it with a phaser set to kill. Spock did mention that they explode after turning into boiling sacks of putrid goo. That will get into places that cannot be reasonably cleaned.” She went to the wall comm and contacted the kitchens. By the description coming over the air, the prep cooks were working on the grease traps.

“If Jim’s not averse, I am.” McCoy said just what the captain was thinking. “Less stinky option, please.”

“Then we continue with what Sha’leyen and I discussed. We are luring it away from the containers with sedative-laced food. When it passes out, she and I will dispatch it in a painless manner.” Spock held off on the balaclava. “It must be stopped before it develops into its adult stage and begins depositing pods. If that happens, the Enterprise may never be free of the infestation.”

“If all you need to do to get it under control is slip it a mickey, what am I doing in there with you?”

“You get to scream and wave your arms, run around some, to scare it away from fleeing into the cargo containers when the drugs start to take hold.” Sha’leyen must have been something else to work under when she was at the Met full-time. She had that cop sense that did a hell of a lot better job than plain old viscera at discerning when something was wrong. “They should be on their way with the kettle. I will find them shortly and return with the bait.”

“Those crewmen would be smart if they were more scared of her than our charming Vulcan friend in there.” Bones clapped Jim on the shoulder. “I sure hope you know how to run fast on a slick floor.”

  
  
  
Heard before she was seen, Sha’leyen was chewing out Lt. Faber. He’d ordered the kitchen staff to deliver the cauldron of vile catsquatch chow so he and his security subordinate could fuck off and not have anything to do with this mess. “If you were one of my Detective Constables, I would suspend you. Pastry chefs and cooks do not have the kind of training that allows them to fare well in a situation like this. Your laziness today could have gotten someone killed.”

Sufficiently cowed, Faber said nothing to Kirk and company and went back to helping the other man push the giant kettle along on casters. “Benson, Hoenthal, get over here and give us a hand.”

“ _Oh, that’s terrible_.” Kirk covered his nose. The new revolting odor competed with catsquatch, his brain trying to sort which was more offensive now that he’d gotten somewhat used to the rank olfactory profile of the stowaway.

“Welcome to the Tevakh t’Sashasolaya, Captain Kirk.” She opened the drug vials and upended them into the mire. “Humans decorate the dining hall with little trees and gaudy idols of fat men in red pajamas and it reminds you of where you come from. The Trash Eater is a little bit of Vulcan.”

“Next year, don’t invite me to meet your parents over the Christmas something other than turkey.” McCoy tried to laugh and coughed instead. “You folks can keep your catsquatch and us humans will huddle over in our corner with our twinkling lights and hot cocoa.”

Using a massive paddle, Sha’leyen used some grunt to stir the drugs into the doom-slurry.

“ _Bar-b-que meat turner_.” Spock whispered.

“What’s that Spock?” Kirk got in with the security people and helped them shove the big pot toward the entrance of Cargo Bay 2.

“I was thinking out loud, Sir. A rare offense. I shall keep such things to myself in the future.” Spock told Bones to stay out in the hall and joined in the effort to move the loaded bait.

***

The Big House heaved with activity. Cars parked in the yard and off the sides of the driveway. Revelers spilled onto the deck where portable heaters kept people warm. Most of the festivities and refreshments were in the dining room.

Spock recognized his contributions to the spread. Peanut butter cookies, decorated sugar cookies, and the yule log he’d won at the cakewalk were set out with countless other treats. He was also given the opportunity to make the first cut on his cake. The outside looked like a thick tree branch and within the approximation of the bark, a swirl of cake and creme. As a feat of chemistry and engineering, it was fascinating. What procedures created a dessert of this scale? How long did construction take? Was this only served at Christmastime? He even gave thought to trying a bite to see what it felt like in his mouth.

“It looks a little like a giant cinnamon roll.” Tralnor came up beside him. “But you’ve got to eat this with a fork.”

“Unless you do not mind sticky fingers.” Cinnamon rolls. Spock had good memories associated with those. Amanda, T’Lal, and Livia would take their children to L'école de Pâtisserie every eight to twelve weeks. The earth bakery in the heart of ShiKahr had the French delicacies implied by the name and also offered other favorites including cupcakes, lemon bars, tortes, crullers, and the aforementioned cinnamon rolls. Warm, gooey, fragrant, the dessert bread was at its best when fresh from the oven.

Tralnor picked out a sesame seed crescent someone had brought and Spock did the same, both intrigued by the shape and scent of the cookies. They wandered through the sea of adults, picking up snippets of conversations about jobs, families, and the nature of the holiday season. Ducking into the ground-floor office, the boys sat on the ground and leaned against Big Fuzzy Dog. The carnival prize was at its least obtrusive and most accessible in that room.

Sweet and savory mingled in Spock’s mouth as he took the first bite of his cookie. The nice flavor combined with the exit from Sarek’s line of visual scrutiny left him the most settled he’d been all night. Still coming to grips with the claims that his father had wanted him as more than an object with which to placate Amanda, it was difficult not to discount what the MacCormacks had told him.

“Tralnor?” He held the half-eaten cookie when a wall of apprehension surrounded him. If he asked this, would the answer offer any succor or leave him as adrift as he was now? “What does Sarek think of me?”

The younger boy looked him in the eye, inhaled, and while not pensive, was vague with his answer. “He cannot protect you. . .”

“Protect me from what?” Spock’s stomach jumped.

Tralnor scanned the ceiling before re-centering his gaze. “Now, right now, he is at a loss as to how to keep you safe.”

Spock observed minute changes in Tralnor’s facial muscles as he thought or scanned or whatever a person of his persuasion did to divine answers.

“I do not know what this means, Spock.” Tralnor offered his hand. “Your father thinks he is running out of time, that he couldn’t save you from Big Bear—”

Tralnor struggled for the words. “. . .k’fudau-tor koon-ul. . . Sarek-fah klopaya pa’tadu tersu. . .”

Of the list of possible responses, Spock had not considered this: Sarek was locked out of the decision regarding his son’s bondmate.

“He wishes to shield you from a repeat of his first marriage, for you to have a good wife, not a business decision.” Tralnor exhaled and returned completely to himself. “It is your aunt. She would see you suffer for political gain so you are not allied with someone she does not approve of.”

“He is worried about me?” That didn’t sound like his father.

A nod. “He is trying to think of something that will keep you safe.”

“That is a proposition doomed to fail.” Spock could see T’Pau and her eternal disillusionment with modern society. She barely tolerated Spock, and knowing what he did about her personal feud with the Lyr Saan, the only way he could be any more useless in her mind was if he was directly related to the former slaves. She’d much rather have Spock in Clan Surak’s midst than Tralnor, though if she had a choice, she’d expel the Ambassador’s little misfit and never think of him again.

  
  
  
“What are you two hiding from?” Mollie found the boys in the office. She sat, her back against the front of the ancient filing cabinet.

“I am avoiding Sarek.” Spock had been having such a lovely time with the MacCormacks, then his father arrived on the scene to remind him that he was only a visitor here. The Big House, Turlock, Justin, all the open arms and warm welcomes were things he shouldn’t get used to.

“You’re not hiding from him too, are you, Fungus?”

“No.” Tralnor said to his sister. “I’m here with Spock because I want to be.”

“People are starting to wonder where you both went.” She wasn’t going to tattle on them, more than understanding the need to get away from certain parents.

“But they are too involved in the party to think we’re rude.” Tralnor, starting to show signs of fatigue, mentally drifted until he still had open eyes but lacked full consciousness. Spock thought he and Mollie should bundle the boy up onto the office’s sofa and let him sleep.

He would let Mollie see if she could shake Tralnor back into the present before they moved him. Her hand didn’t make it to touch her kid brother’s shoulder. Tralnor gasped and grabbed hold of Mollie’s arm where he hoisted his body up from the floor and fled from the room at an almost dead run.

“What was that?” Spock didn’t know that Mollie had an explanation for this behavior. He wound up not waiting for an answer because even he felt the overboiling human who’d mounted the rear steps to the first-floor deck. “ _Mollie, it is Deena March_.”

***

Bones insisted that he’d help with the initial heave-ho of getting the kettle into the bay. Extra momentum he’d called it.

Kirk thought he had his part in this carnival figured out and posited one last thing before he hauled off and ran/danced/jingle-belled through the bay with abandon to keep catsquatch from fleeing and hunkering down in the cargo. “I thought Vulcan’s year was a different length than an earth year. How can it be the right time in both places for these upright garbage scows to be on the loose?”

“Quirk of the universe, Captain. Your holiday happened to sync up with Vulcan’s winter solstice. I think you might call it plain bad luck.” Sha’leyen positioned her goggles so her eyes were protected from the barfed up sludge the creature dispensed. “We could give you the mathematics and statistics on the convergence of celestial bodies and calendars, but we will spare you this once.”

“I don’t know if I should laugh or be afraid.” McCoy drove his shoulder into the super heavy-duty pot and shoved with the rest of the group. “And I say that about catsquatch and your math lecture.”

The sound emanating from the beast was a call back to someone trying to breathe through a clogged nose. Jim associated that as the precursor of another bout of black sputum exploding from the thing’s mouth.

They caught the critter’s attention, food piquing its interest in the people invading what it surely thought of as home. Now sharing the same space and with it closing in, catsquatch’s anatomical details became clearer. Whoever the hack scientists were that created this thing, Kirk was up for launching an expedition to dig up their graves and feed their corpses to the screeching Trash Eater as the only way he could think of to get back at catsquatch’s progenitors.

“GLAAAAAHK!” Snuffle, snuffle, snort, and snuffle, it scented the air and figured out where the luscious odors of a delectable meal were coming from, thus drawing it closer. “GLAAAAAHK-AAAAAHK!”

“Dr. McCoy, Faber, Benson, Hoenthal, calmly walk away and wait well into the hallway.” Sha’leyen directed as she opened up a rolled set of kitchen knives that were tucked onto the wheeled support the kettle moved about on.

“ _That’s your plan_?” Bones went slightly cross-eyed. “ _Stab it to death with a chef’s knife_?”

“Leave, now, Doctor.” Spock chose his kitchen utensil and did as Sha’leyen had, and set it on the floor about forty centimeters to the right of where he stood.

Maybe four meters away and closing, Jim got to appreciate the hideousness beyond the stench, brewed black tea-colored skin, and rows of shark teeth. It obviously possessed some percentage of Vulcan DNA, as it sported ears like Spock’s. Fingers like spider legs tipped with cracked and broken nails that wouldn’t seem out of place amongst mistreated mine workers, it started to reach out, wanting to start stuffing its face with the witch’s brew disguised as lunch.

“Captain, slowly move toward the cargo containers. If we cannot keep it isolated in this open area, begin acting in the disruptive manner we discussed.” Spock flexed his hands and Kirk did as instructed.

“GUUUUUUUL!” It didn’t seem like the Trash Eater could see very well. In fact, Jim was unable to identify any landmarks on the thing’s face that suggested it had eyes at all. Who knew what the ancient scientists were doing when they invented catsquatch?

 _That’s it_ , Jim thought. _Good doggy-thingy. Eat every last bite_.

The way it inhaled this wet food was stomach curdling for the normal people forced to watch and listen. Bent at the waist, head bobbing through the almost-chum, it tried using its spindly fingers to shove as much slop into its mouth as possible. One of the smart choices Spock made was having this odious dish done up like a soup of sorts so catsquatch was forced to go slower than it had with the dry goods on the other side of the bay.

Blowing bubbles and gurgling, Kirk wasn’t remiss in thinking catsquatch was enjoying the hell out of this treat. Its midsection began to fill out, more avian than mammalian, it closely resembled a full crop on a baby parrot. What were Spock and Sha’leyen waiting for?

When its scaly tongue scraped against the kettle’s sides, the science officers finally began to execute their part of the plan. Catsquatch staggered back from the bowl and let out a groan that lacked the volume or vocabulary of previous calls.

 _Let this mean it’s sleepy_. Kirk found himself rooting for it to hiccup like the town drunk and pass out cold. _Come on, catsquatch. You can do it_!

“ _Guu-u-u-uu_. . .” It rubbed one of its creepy fingers where a Vulcan’s eye should be. Everything looked like it was working out when it shrieked bloody murder and started digging at its face. The more it ground its vinegar soup-stained hands into its anatomical eye area, its upset multiplied.

 _Of course, you’d get vinegar in your eyes. It’s acid you sad beast_. Kirk got that thought popped off when—

“GLAAAAAAHK-AAAAAHK!” Now it sounded angry. It made an about-face that many an academy drill instructor would envy and tore off for its comfort zone.

“Ward it off, Captain!” Sha’leyen grabbed her knife and ran after.

“GUUUUUUUUUUL!” Those rows of teeth, food debris flowing in its drool, its cheeks flapped as it screamed.

“ _Oh, shit_.” Kirk said.

“Damnit, Jim, run!” McCoy, who’d lingered too close to the entry shouted instruction and encouragement.

And that’s exactly what Kirk did.

***

Homemade peach schnapps, wine from the grapevines on the other side of the tractor barn, eggnog with a little extra zip per sip, Justin had a nice buzz going. He’d been talking to an old friend of his father’s when another of his former schoolmates approached.

Sonya Edy, who never could tell Justin’s sisters apart, had an expression of absolute confusion. “I’ve always been under the impression that Livia wasn’t into men and now I hear she’s married to one?”

“That’s because you’re talking about Theresa. She’s over there with her husband, Sula.” He indicated the person associated with that name.

“Oh, wow. I mean, I knew you wound up with someone about as different from that skanky bitch Deena as you could find. Didn’t know it became a family thing. Maybe the time has finally come for the MacCormacks to reverse some of the inbreeding from the past thousand years?” Sonya, like many of the people he’d known from growing up, still teased about the lack of genetic diversity in human psions. Justin understood it was a joke. “Where did Theresa get this guy?”

“They met because of a typo in the staff directory at the Vulcan Science Academy. Her name was spelled wrong, making Sula think she was a childhood friend. He decided to pay T’Risa a visit and catch up with her about the old days.” He spelled out the Vulcan name that sounded exactly like his sister’s moniker that was based on an Ancient Greek word that meant harvest.

“But he found a MacCormack instead.” She laughed at that.

“I know, poor guy.” About to say something to engender his escape from this person, Justin was saved, he believed, when his son appeared.

“Justin, who is this darling boy?” Sonya didn’t know why she was ignored.

(You have picked up on something, Tralnor?) Justin, as he often did when speaking with children got down on his son’s level.

(It is the crying woman from the community dinner.) Tralnor didn’t like bearing bad news. (She’s going to come in the house. Right now, she’s on the deck.)

After telling his son to go back to Spock and Mollie, Justin went upstairs to take care of this monster that disguised herself as a human.

***

Catsquatch’s trajectory didn’t much change with Kirk’s imitation of a headless chicken. “ _We should have used a flamethrower_!”

“AAAAAAAK-GUUUUUUL—” It hadn’t stopped vocalizing since it got vinegar in its whatevers.

It’s belly, stretched taut by the sheer volume of food it had put down, rippled, abdominal muscles set to spasm. The captain hollered, “This isn’t working!”

“Keep doing what you’re doing, Captain.” Sha’leyen had some kind of misguided faith in his ability to get this stampede turned.

It screamed, Kirk screamed, and the scientists crept up to it. They didn’t want to catch its attention. Catsquatch’s midsection clenched and quivered. Jim and this Vulcan reindeer stopped just short of one another, possibly two meters between them at most. It shook its head and its voice went down several decibels.

“Thank you pharmaceuticals.” One sniffle, a series of coughs, Kirk was sure it was going to sleep and headed for the deck. “Goodnight, Catsquatch.”

It started to yawn, or at least that’s what Kirk thought. He was happy this was drawing to a close. Maintenance would have this bay looking brand new by the time—

“ _Captain_ —” Spock didn’t speak fast enough for Kirk to hear the rest of his warning.

A high-pressure stream of squid ink-colored puke disgorged from its toothy mouth. Hot, viscous, the liquid caught Jim center mass and flung him down, where it splashed and cascaded off him to the debris-littered floor.

  
  
  
Bones winced as Jim emerged from the most isolated of the sick bay shower cubicles. “You’d best march your ass back in there. And get behind your ears this time.”

To say the smell lingered was like claiming Limburger cheese had a slight whiff about it. “I’m going to wind up using every last drop of water on this ship.”

“The sonic sure as hell didn’t work. That unit will have to be written off because every single soul to go in there after you will come out reeking of that garbage monster.”

The captain started back into the stall, not paying attention to the opening and closing of the bathroom door, Kirk assumed one of McCoy’s nurses had popped in to ask the doctor about something. When he heard the Belonite’s accent, the captain was very aware that the only thing covering his body was the stench of catsquatch.

Sha’leyen was either not bothered by what she saw or was saving any insults for later when she was amongst friends. She produced an approximately 100 mL bottle containing a fuchsia-colored liquid. “Try scrubbing with this. Be warned, _it will sting_ , but it is designed to strip the oils from your skin and hair, where the Trash Eater’s—”

“Thanks.” Jim took the bottle. “What was that black stuff?”

“The cats that spray to mark their territory, it is like that, only it comes from the mouth rather than the genital region.”

“ _So, it pissed on me_?” Kirk asked while all McCoy could do was grimace and try not to break down in hysterics.

In a reaction much like Jim would expect to see from Spock, Sha’leyen gave a head tilt and lifted her brow. “Yes, Captain. That is exactly what it did.”

Both humans groaned. Jim and his bottle of hopefully magic potion Sha’leyen made up for him retreated into the steamy shower. Recalling what she’d said earlier along with Spock’s declaration that catsquatch was the end of his best day ever, Kirk thought, _Maybe the Vulcans have the right idea about this holiday thing_?

***

Justin headed up the rear staircase off the kitchen so he wasn’t mowing anyone down in his race to intercept Deena. He slipped quickly between revelers and heard laughter and melody coming from the music room as he navigated down the hallway. The deck connected to the house via a sliding glass door that led from a borderline stuffy open sitting room. A cluster of guests wondered where the fire was.

The dim lighting put out by the strings of paper lanterns granted a more intimate mood for those who’d wanted to come out and gaze up at the sky. Like any number of house parties Justin had attended throughout his life, he recognized how and why people had broken off into little pods of conversation on varying topics. It was the one person not engaged in a social activity that demanded his attention.

“ _You need to leave_.” He wasn’t rude, but there was more than enough authority conveyed in his voice that she had to know he was serious.

“Please, Justin.” Tonight, without her makeup on or nice clothes to soften the edges, Deena looked played out and tired. “You’re the most reasonable man I’ve ever known. I need you to listen.”

“Dave and Rolly are downstairs. In case you don’t know, they’re Stanislaus County Sheriffs now.”

Her eyes squeezed shut, sending fat tears rolling down her cheeks. The din of conversation evaporated, leaving only the sounds of the breeze cutting through the naked trees. More spectators filed out onto the deck. “Why can’t we talk like a couple of adults?”

Justin, not willing to entertain her delusional need for self-gratification, turned to go and find the off-duty law enforcement officers. Someone, the only voice to break the silence said, “How dare you come waltzing out here. _You’re a lying whore_.”

“Justin!” Deena kept with her pleading.

He ignored her and started pushing through the congregated attendees. He’d last seen Rolly in the dining room, trying her luck at darts against T’Lal. Deena tried to follow and found herself summarily blocked from going into the house or back down the stairs.

She decided to try one more thing. “That summer, Justin, I had an abortion.”

Stopping, leaning his head back so no one could see how hard his eyes rolled, Justin sighed. All of his professional training told him to keep on his objective of finding Rolly while the fight or flight reaction rattling his brain immediately wanted to challenge such a claim. He stuck with his higher thought processes, going toward the house once more.

“What is _wrong_ with you, Deena?” Another someone, a woman this time, asked. “Fuck off out of here you crazy bitch.”

  
  
  
Spock and Mollie were fast in responding to Tralnor’s distress. She shepherded the boy to the sofa, but he didn’t want to sit down.

“Do you know why she’s here?” Mollie wasn’t going to force Tralnor to do anything. He was not the kind of person who took well to others directing him when he thought he had no stake in the outcome.

“She thinks Justin needs to listen to her.” Tralnor must have unfurled his mind, opening it to seek the human abscess that was Deena March. “ _She needs him to feel sorry for her_.”

Caught by how odd a desire that was, Spock had to ask why Deena or anyone could feel that way. In this situation, even Tralnor’s severe empathic abilities had no way of granting that insight. “Is there anything we can do, Tralnor?”

“Yes.” He didn’t need to state how he knew this might help. “You and Mollie, find the Sheriffs who came out here with Sajak. I will get Sarek. We will see you out on the deck.”

  
  
  
“All these years, you’ve been worried about what _I_ did to you, how _I_ ruined your life, while you went on your happy way. That summer was barely a bump in the road.” Deena didn’t speak so much as issue a challenge.

Justin, who’d run head-on into Miles while entering the house was marched right back out by his brother, psionically listening to him that turning his back on Deena was the worst thing he could do right now. Unfortunately, Miles was right. Justin didn’t have to substantiate any of her claims, feed into her need for attention, all that was required was he stand there and listen to her far-fetched claims.

“I wanted to tell you, Justin, I really did.” She rubbed her belly adding a further level of sadism. “My mom convinced me not to.”

T’Lal was absolutely correct, Deena thought her downfall that summer was all Justin’s fault and found ways to make sure her narrative fit the facts.

“You told me that you weren’t going to stay here with me at Stanislaus State for a year. I was supposed to go it alone, nothing but crumbs from you. How was I supposed to handle it when I was being abandoned and you were flying off to a place full of movie stars and bikini models?”

She’d clearly chosen to forget that she’d cajoled, insisted, fully endorsed that he to go to Los Angeles rather than defer matriculation by a year. The people up here on the deck knew Deena was full of shit and that once again, the only person she was making look bad was her.

“I decided to get rid of you in grand fashion and that included a termination at twelve weeks.”

“You don’t think any of us are so fucking dumb we’re buying that, Deena?” The unnamed man from earlier spoke up again. “You’d started fucking around on him two days after graduation!”

Deena had deliberately avoided Justin at the conclusion of their high school graduation activities, immediately taking off to spend some time with her aunt and uncle out in Fairfield. He’d not seen her, in person, until later in the summer at a court appearance. All the time she’d been out of town, Justin was the one trying to keep in touch. She dodged his calls as often as possible and upon her return to Turlock, she sent the police and filed the rape report against him.

While she talked about how scared she was when she’d realized she was pregnant, Miles decided he’d had enough of this shit. “My god, Deena, you really are that fucking stupid. A) You had the balls to come back here. B) You forgot something super important in the structure of your lies besides learning to tell a good one that can hold up to any scrutiny.”

She shook her head like she refused to listen to what Miles had to say.

“C) This latest flaming pile of shit that you’re trying to pin on my brother, is also not of his doing.” Miles crossed his arms over his chest, a prompt for her to remember some important point. “Fuck’s sake, Deena. Our parents are physicians! You don’t think Chuck and Hannah would let a couple of horny teenage boys out of the house without making sure we’d gotten regular doses of Botandron-D? We were on birth-control you dumbass!”

More people squeezed onto the deck from the outside stairs and the first-floor sitting room. Dave and Rolly came from behind Justin and Sarek finished cresting the wooden steps, Tralnor on his heels.

“Tralnor, go inside.” Those were the first words Justin uttered after he’d described their former classmates-turned-Sheriff’s Deputies.

Deena looked around at what everyone in her vicinity was staring at. She gawped at the ambassador then pointed at Tralnor. “That boy, he should be mine. . .”

“Sarek, i’to’tsu’k’hy.” Tralnor said. “Ko lipau svi’sa’haf.”

 _Sarek, nerve pinch her now. . . She has a knife in her purse_.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Catsquatch Christmas! After I posted Chapter 10 of this novel, I was on a tear writing _The Mair-rigolauya_. I've made tremendous strides on that story and am closing in on the end. Over here in _Holidays_ -land things were put on hold for a while. I've often revisited my notes and re-read various passages to keep this fresh in my mind. Enjoy and thank you so much for spending part of your day in my imagination.

Dr. Charles Eldon MacCormack and his wife Dr. Hannah Gunn-MacCormack spoke to a detective from the Stanislaus County Sheriff. They conversed from their current placement where they were offering medical assistance to the refugee camps that housed displaced inhabitants of the Parkway System. The connection was remarkably good considering the non-Federation-chartered hinterland where they were stationed.

As his parents tried to come to terms with the returned nightmare called Deena March, Justin held tight to his child. Tralnor was asleep, all the exertion of the day having caught up to him. _What kind of universe is it when your nursery-school-aged son plays a major part in protecting you from a mentally deranged person_?

Sarek entered the office at the behest of a deputy. He told Justin's parents what he'd learned from the woman they'd once considered a member of their family. Deena's original plan as she crashed the party was to stab her ex, no thought to killing him or not, just a demonstration of what she felt he'd done to her. When revelers walled her off from her target, she'd not known how to make her goal when a man and Justin's son came up the steps. Quick thinking, Deena adjusted her design. She'd get her hands on the boy, use him as a lure, hurt him if that's what it took to get his father to engage, and visit her punishment on Justin.

"All of this misery because she didn't get into the university she wanted?" Chuck had thought this was long over and showed great irritation that his family was dealing with this again. "She'd better go to prison this time and stay there."

(I informed the other detective that I am available for questioning or court appearances at any time.) Sarek said. (Is there anything I can do for you, Justin?)

(I think you've done enough for one night. Thank you, my friend.)

  
  
***

  
  
"What the hell is going on in there, Jim?" Bones, possibly concerned about the yelping, poked his head into the stall.

"She said it would sting. . ." Kirk hummed his misery.

"I get it." The doctor picked up the bottle and swirled around the other half of the lurid fuchsia-ish liquid.

“ _Ungggg_ —that's—it stings, it stings."

"It's got you looking like a spanked lobster." Bones took a sniff of the potion and thought about what his nose was telling him. "That's actually kind of nice. She told me what's in it and its all-natural food-grade ingredients. I wonder if you could use it as a cocktail mixer?"

"You'd drink this? You're a madman."

"Scrub-a-dub, Captain." Bottle set down, the doctor had one more bit of wisdom or whatever. "If I was you, I wouldn't use any of this on—"

Kirk would remember a short bellow of shock emanating from his throat and the heat of the water making a fierce burning sensation feel like he'd been set on fire. Wordless grunts of pain were all he could manage right then.

"As I was trying to say, don't let any of this get into your urethra. It's going to smart if you do."

  
  
  
The nurse who'd attempted to enter Jim's hideaway to check him over to see if the redness had gone down barely made it under the archway before her hands flew up to her face and the lingering eau d' catsquatch left her heaving. She tried to stagger away.

"If you think he reeks now, Mathers, you should have caught a whiff before the chemical peel and power washing." Bones got his helper limped off to parts unknown.

"It's still that bad?" Kirk asked on McCoy's return. He took a whiff of his arm and all he could discern was the spiced fruit from Sha'leyen's scrub.

"Having smelled the real deal, this is like a room full of roses and baby's breath. That said, you're not safe for human consumption right now." Bones pulled up the blanket and hem on Jim's gown. "I sure hope you didn't have a hot date for tonight."

"Only you, Bones. Is it okay if we just cuddle?" Glad he couldn't see his agonized, unhappy penis, Kirk was trying to cook up a scheme so he could still get some work done for the next few days. With Nurse Mathers' reaction, he knew catsquatch was still thick on him.

"If this internal swelling doesn't go down soon—" The doctor thought better of finishing that line.

"I'm not going to like this, am I?" He flopped against his pillow and stared at the ceiling.

"Dr. McCoy, Captain Kirk, may I come in?" Sha'leyen had an ancient leather apron, rolled up like the kitchen knives from earlier in the day.

Jim didn't think he had any reason to chase her off but deferred the choice to Bones. She waited at the threshold. Waved in by the doctor, she approached the head of the bed.

"I must apologize, Captain. In my drive to help you shed the Trash Eater's stench, I did not take into account one of the slight anatomical differences when comparing human and Vulcanid bodies. Human males lack a dahr-spenuk vazh-mev or distal valve in the meatus of the penis and that is why you are in your current state." She turned to open the apparatus she called her Doctor Bag. "Fnish-fezhau is meant only for the skin, not mucous membranes or other delicate tissues, as you have unfortunately discovered."

He knew she'd not been deliberate in her omission of that one painful little detail. Kirk graciously accepted her apology then noticed the thing McCoy was holding. "Do I want to know?"

"I'm sure you'd rather not." Bones scooted up to Sha'leyen. "You've got a lovely bedside manner, Lt. Commander. Do you want to give him the good news or should I?"

Not entertained by the injection of absurdist humor, Sha'leyen faced Kirk once more. "The treatment for your reaction is two-fold. I have given Dr. McCoy the formulation for an oral anti-inflammatory that will help over the next few hours, he can synthesize more should you need it. I will dispense the first dose. The other part of this is the gel that will lubricate the catheter for insertion into your urethra."

Bones was right, he didn't want to know. "Well, this is an unpleasant afternoon that's a bonus add-on to one of the most unpleasant mornings in my entire life."

"I made this up fresh for you, Captain." She said. "You should start to feel relief immediately."

"And by cathing you for a couple of hours, you don't have to worry about taking a leak and rinsing all that medicine out, not that you could take a piss right now to save your life. The swelling needs to go down first." Bones made a motion and Sha'leyen handed over a standard shot glass that held an elixir.

A sniff and Jim thought this stuff smelled a lot better than he did. He opened his mouth to tip it back and briefly paused. _I hope this doesn't taste like catsquatch chow_. "Not terrible."

"And for the bad part to begin." She took the glass and grabbed a small, see-through plastic pouch that might have been for single-serve condiments if he didn't know better. "I compounded this for you as well."

"Since I'm under the impression that you're going to keep me here for the duration of this so-called treatment, can I at least have a data padd or mobile terminal brought in so I might get some work done?" Kirk was glad that the sheet and the hem of his gown were drawn and bunched up somewhere just north of his bellybutton. This meant he didn't have to see as a sterile plastic tube was threaded up into his bladder.

"Let's make sure you're situated and feeling okay before we set you loose on the computer." Bones accepted the gel packet from Sha'leyen.

"I am very sorry, Captain." The bioarchaeologist repeated. She didn't show the emotion she lay claim to and for many humans Sha'leyen was entirely insincere and particularly mean. Kirk knew her sentiment was genuine.

"I'll be fine, Lt. Commander." He let her have one of those roguish grins that slayed the ladies every time. It was dumb of him to expect a response, but his eyes played tricks on his brain. That this woman had curved eyebrows and rounded ears meant nothing. _Remember, Jimmy, appearances aren't everything_.

"We'd better not have to host another one of your Christmas critters again. I don't think I've got it in me to survive a second invasion, and I didn't have to break its neck, or have it piss on me." McCoy began on some humorous prattle, enough to distract Jim from the procedure.

"Our cargo masters and security personnel should be taught to recognize and destroy Trash Eater pods before they hatch. There are no guarantees that Enterprise will never deal with this issue again." She noticed that Jim was staring at her, counting the scars on her face. McCoy made a _no_ motion at the Captain.

Nothing in her hands, Sha'leyen wrapped her fingers around the hems of her tunic and undershirt, pulling the whole thing off. Kirk couldn't breathe, not because of the lingering catsquatch funk, but for the graffiti on her skin. Gouges, burns, bite-marks, cuts, there was no end to the marring.

"Something to remember my ex-husband by." She gave no particulars, slowly revolving once where Kirk could see her back. On her right shoulder, more-or-less covering her scapula was an elaborate tattoo, Vulcan calligraphy he guessed, and in parts, the writing was interrupted or defaced.

He leveled his gaze downward and glimpsed perhaps the only reminders of her past that weren't inflicted by the butcher she'd been married to. "Would it be wrong for me to venture that your little one—"

"They have both walked down The Path of Dying."

Inside his skull, his brain shook with grief for her and rage at the man, less than man, catsquatch was a better man than whoever used to be her husband. Awash with fury, he was unable to choke out another word until she'd gotten back into her clothes and prompted him with a question.

"How old is your child, Sir?"

"He's, ah—It's not common knowledge that I'm a father." He didn't want to admit to being a shit heel. "I've met him all of three times. If he remembers me, he doesn't know, probably shouldn't know, that I'm his dad."

"Deep space is not where you want to raise a family, but it gives you the option of choosing one to call your own." She touched Jim on the shoulder, granting him a sense of calm.

"True." He agreed with her. "The peanut gallery is awfully quiet. When are you going to start threading that thing up my—"

Bones drew the gown and sheet toward the end of Jim's bed. "Done. Slipped it in while the Lt. Commander had you distracted."

Taking account of all sectors of his body, the doctor was right. "It's starting to feel better."

"I will check in with both of you this evening." Sha'leyen rolled up her apron and left the men to their own devices.

"Who is this ex-husband of hers?" Kirk hoped, for the scumbag's sake, that he was far, far away.

"Don't know. She's never mentioned his name, but I do think you're in luck." Bones shucked his gloves. "I'm pretty sure the guy is dead. I'd wager that claim to be ninety-percent true and one-hundred percent conjecture."

"I've wanted to ask what happened to her since I took command. Right now, I'm wishing she'd told me to go jump off a cliff."

  
  
  
Spock dared to call when he knew Mollie was not in her office, thus risking the wrath of the vicious Detective Pambakian. Even in the aftermath of felling the Trash Eater, he'd not snapped out of his lingering funk from the composition of last night's flushed letter. Not having any close friends, or any friends, amongst this crew, his mind spinning circles when he tried to meditate and put the issue to bed, he needed a few minutes with someone who understood the situation.

He nearly ended the call before it connected, thinking that maybe Tralnor or Justin were better fits for this malingering contempt between father and son. Given the date and time, Justin was toiling away with Big Momma, making up the dough for the peanut butter cookies. Tralnor and his girls, in ShiKahr, were putting the finishing touches to training for the younger daughter to take the Kahs'wan. Both men were busy and probably tired of Spock's interruptions.

"Oh, hey, good to see you." She was in bed and knowing Mollie, she'd just set down a book so she could talk.

He wanted to talk about his father with someone who'd experienced Sarek firsthand. Instead, the topic was sidelined. "It is good to see you as well. This ship had a special guest for the holiday."

"Had?"

"A juvenile Trash Eater visited destruction on Cargo Bay 2." This topic was mildly humorous, much easier to broach.

Her face pinched, eyes and lips scrunched, as her mind played up the noise and stink of the beast. “ _Ooooooh_ , that's not good."

"Captain Kirk insisted on coming along to help take care of it."

"And. . ." She giggled. "I know what that expression on your face means. Am I going to laugh until I hyperventilate?"

"That is a possibility."

"Trash Eater, human captain, combine together for a zany disaster?"

Spock knew this wasn't what they should be discussing, but it was just so much easier. "Indeed. The confrontation ended with it spraying the captain which granted the distraction needed for me to break its neck."

Mollie buried her face in her hands and rapidly shook her head, one of her childhood affectations that Spock thought endearing. "That poor man!"

As he lay on the deck, moaning and upchucking bile, Kirk got an up-close, nearly hands-on experience with what had to be done to a newly dead Trash Eater. Sha'leyen had the honor of eviscerating the corpse to comprehensively see to it that this problem was fully deceased. Green washed over the floor while she sought its reproductive tract. They were most fortunate that the "catsquatch" as the captain had termed it was not host to a single pod developed enough to have attained viability. It was Enterprise's lucky day when no maturing follicles were found.

"Your friend probably thinks that the Vulcans were jerks for developing the Trash Eaters."

"If that is his sentiment, he is not wrong." Today was the first time Spock had gotten so close to one. He remembered learning that they were lab-created lifeforms that possessed a bastardized combination of genes from Vulcans and the wild animals of the blazing planet he and Mollie called home. It repulsed him as a child to learn such things were made and unleashed. As an adult, the disgust was gone, replaced by a deep-seated understanding that it had no say in its conception.

"Yeah, the Ancient Vulcans were dicks." She lowered her hands and looked toward her bedroom door.

"Why is there never any food around this place!" Mollie's fridge door slammed. A certain someone must have gotten home from work.

Mollie whispered, " _Not tonight, Zadie_.”

"Would it kill you to stock half a kilo of lunchmeat and some bacon? After I've been at work all day, I'd love to come home to something more than pinto beans, salad greens, cheese danish, and the gruel you eat for breakfast." Heavy footfalls and clattering dishes, the detective kept her presence known.

"When it's just me and her, she makes it like I'm the only person in the whole universe. . . It's stupid, messy, illogical, like being sucked into the gravity well of a neutron star, there's no way for me to describe how hard it is to quit this woman, Spock." She returned her full gaze to the call she'd have to cut off. "I don't understand why—"

"Do you want to have a glass of wine with me, Baby?"

Spock wanted to tell her that if she asked, perhaps Sarek might get her moved up the mission list again thus shortening the duration of exposure to Zadie. "I will leave you to your evening."

"If you can, call me at the office tomorrow. I'll be going in to catch up on some organizing." She offered a hand signal to her girlfriend to accept the offer of alcohol. "That way you can tell me what you're really thinking about."

"Tomorrow." He affirmed.

"Baby, who're you talking to?" 

Mollie flipped the screen down, unable to give a proper send-off. "Just someone I work with, no one you know."

Spock disconnected and left his quarters. He wanted to get his mind away from bad relationships, both personal and familial, and moving toward constructive thought. What would he do and where would he go?

  
  
  
Seconds elapsed before Spock understood that Kirk was happy to see him. Not used to that reaction from people, he would hold fast to this moment in the weeks and months to come.

"The only people who can stand to be around me right now are you, Bones, and Sha'leyen. She thinks a couple more days and scrubs with that caustic pink stuff should finally knock the stink off me. Otherwise, she said this fug could linger for weeks."

"Lt. Commander Sha'leyen is correct, Sir." Spock sat as to keep Kirk from getting agitated about people hovering over him. That was a phenomenon that the science officer had observed and wanted to respect the Captain's boundaries.

"How come for you and her it's a one-and-done application of that cleanser and I've got to worry about getting it up my—" Kirk's eyes threatened to water at the thought of his earlier pain. "Too much information, I'm sure."

"Human anatomy being what it is in that respect, Sir, leaves me fortunate that I take after my father's side of the family more than my mother's." He thought about the question Kirk posed. "You are having to undergo further treatments because your skin, both the immediate surface and underlying dermis have at least forty-two-point-three-seven percent more oleic compounds than Vulcans do. Scents, be they pleasant or putrid, are fat-soluble, as a person with fattier, oiler skin, you will retain those molecules longer than we do. That is why you will find fine perfumes and colognes have oil components to make the fragrance last longer."

"Thanks for putting it to me that way. It sounds a lot nicer than humans are greasy, smelly, and not smart enough to avoid being pissed on by garbage monsters." That the captain could smile despite the ruination of his best Christmas ever granted Spock some insight. Few men could rally back from the insults Kirk faced today. No ranting or railing about the Trash Eater or any motives the creature could have had to disrupt the captain's spirits. No complaining about Sha'leyen or the medicine she'd doled out. No utterances decrying how life was not fair. "Any particular reason you needed to see me, Spock?"

"No, Sir." He didn't need to talk about the schism with his father, the soul-stomping of watching Mollie lose herself to a human barracuda, or that he was lost on what to say to his mother for this year's holiday. "I simply wished to visit with you."

"Okay, if that's how it is, then there's something I'm going to need from you."

"Sir?" Spock should have known there was a hitch.

"After hours, I'm not Sir, I'm not Captain Kirk, I'm Jim." While Kirk had no hindrances in showing his emotions on his face, there was something particularly truthful in that assessment when Spock observed his eyes. The human smiled, the sentiment gleaming from those eyes. . . "My name is Jim."

"Then I shall restate my intention." Spock couldn't help but hear someone gagging in the area of the captain's berth, a member of the medical staff arriving for the overnight shift. "I wished to visit you, Jim."

"That's better, don't you think that's better?"

Actually, yes he did think that was better and made a silent promise that he would never forget this man or his name. This was a show of how far decency and a sprinkle of kindness went with Spock. "Your name is Jim.”

  
  
***

  
  
Bussing the tables after lunch, the previously upheld routine of sitting a lesson on whatever interesting topics the adults thought up was abandoned for today. They went outside, played something called a scrimmage match, and at the conclusion were set loose to do whatever they felt like doing until dinner. The only restriction was that everyone had to stay in or fairly near the house.

One of the things Spock wanted to do, once she returned from a trip into town, was to show Amanda his ornament and stocking as she understood the importance of such mundane items. Sarek had no patience for human frivolities.

They’d gone out with Tralnor and fed the chickens, eventually leaving him for the birds to love on. He’d catch up to them later. Mollie mounted the front steps just behind him and they let themselves in, the idea being they were going to wait in the ground-floor office for Tralnor and find something to do from there. It was a reasonable plan until they discovered the room in use.

". . . unenviable situation you're in. . ."

"How are you and T'Lal approaching your son's betrothal, or have you chosen to forego that tradition?" There was Sarek, speaking about the very thing Tralnor declared.

"We're already working with a matchmaker. We've started the search early because it's not easy to find bondmate for a hyper-empath."

"I know who my wife and I would choose for Spock. However, T'Pau would never hear of it—"

The two kids quietly slipped away, found the living room empty, and adopted a station on the floor as close as they could get to the tree. Someone had set the lights to flicker and dance. Half mesmerized by the flashing colors, Spock pulled back to refocus his mind. "Mollie, will you still be there when I'm married, even if she's horrible like Deena March?"

A serious nod. "Always, Spock."

As happened many times in their lives, they noticed they were holding hands, not having consciously initiated the touch. He wished he knew how being with her gave him a sense of protection and calm that he'd never gotten from another person.

"If they start kissing I'm gonna throw up." A familiar, human voice said.

Hands disentangled and heads whipped toward the entryway. Tralnor stood between Johnny and Carter and said, "All of our moms met by chance at the market".

"Now they're out here for coffee and tea and we asked to come and see you guys." Carter said.

"Probably won't be for very long. If mom's not home soon, dad's going to eat all of the cheese logs and she'll be mad." Johnny grinned. "And I won't throw up if you guys kiss, but I'll feel like it."

"Let's go up to the music room." Tralnor headed the charge.

"Are you two going to get married?" Carter asked when they'd trooped up the stairs.

“ _No_!" Spock, Mollie, and Tralnor sounded off together, simultaneous shots, putting an abrupt halt to that line of speculation.

What had made Carter ask something like that? Had he clued into the upcoming disaster of Spock's betrothal? There would be no mention of the sanctioned pairing off or why such arrangements were needed. Not for the first time, Spock was glad to realize that Mollie had the good fortune of not being trapped by the capricious Vulcan reproductive cycle that he and Tralnor were beholden to.

"My mom said all the cops came here last night. Did somebody get hurt?" Johnny understood that the topic needed to move on.

"An uninvited guest tried to start some trouble." Spock had never seen someone wield a knife the way Deena tried. He and Mollie had gone out onto the deck with the deputies, witnessing the spasmodic violence as channeled through hatred.

In the music room, while they looked around, Johnny went on, "What kind of trouble? When my Uncle Hal is a boob, my parents just tell him to go home."

"She was going to stab my father." Tralnor said, a reserve in his voice most adults would struggle to sustain. "And possibly me as well."

The human boys paled. Carter's mouth hung open and Johnny haltingly asked, "Were you scared?"

Spock had been scared and Mollie admitted the same to him when they were going to sleep. When Tralnor didn't immediately return a yes or no answer, it was hard to figure what was going on inside the littlest boy's head.

"I would have been scared." Johnny's honesty was quickly becoming the personality trait Spock admired most about this kid.

"Me too, Johnny." Carter shivered at what his new friends had gone through last night.

"I'm not certain if I experienced fear. That is because all of the people around me were frightened. Their distress was more than my brain could process. I was unable to tell the difference between what I might have felt and anything that they were afraid of." He gave the most succinct description he could, but may still have lost Johnny and Carter. "When I seek help from my parents, I might know my own emotions later."

The plans to have fun with the army of musical instruments in the room got pushed back by curiosity about Tralnor's frankly strange commentary. In the pattern they'd established at the community dinner, of explaining certain aspects of Vulcan-isms, Johnny and Carter got more of a lesson than generalized answers as previously offered. This lasted, with Spock and Mollie offering their own observations on what it was like to associate so closely with a person of her brother's ilk until all the moms came up to collect their assorted children.

"Did you have a good time with your friends?" Amanda left the question open for anyone but specifically wanted Spock's opinion.

"Yes, Mother." Spock replied just how she wished he would. While he may never admit it by using language that implied the expression of emotion, this vague confirmation planted a smile on his mother's face. Sweet reward for a simple statement.

  
  
***

  
  
Someone was coughing, the sound and intensity grew on approach. Kirk had yet to tire of the people who got too close, trying to win bets issued by crewmates, that they couldn't handle half-strength catsquatch. "Do you think it's a real visitor or another looky-lou?"

"It is Lt. Uhura." Spock stated.

"How can you tell? Is it your Vulcan super-senses or a Sherlock Holmes-esque pattern of observation?"

"It is obvious from the cadence of her boots striking the deck plates."

Before Kirk could ask for clarification on what about her stride marked her out as an individual, Uhura stopped at the entry, face ashen, a finger and thumb clamped hard to seal her nostrils. She sounded like she had a case of hayfever clogging her airways. "Captain Kirk, I spoke to Dr. McCoy this afternoon and he said you'll be here for a few days."

 _Don't remind me_ , Jim thought. "That's right, Lieutenant."

"Then it's my job to inform you that the doctor and I took the initiative to push the Christmas party back so you can be there." She coughed. "And we'd all love to see you as well, Mr. Spock."

"You didn't have to go and do that." He hadn't thought about that party once since catsquatch came on the scene.

"We wanted to, me, Dr. McCoy, and the rest of the crew. This was your idea and it wouldn't feel right to celebrate without you." Uhura took her first step away, ready to follow her escape plan the moment she was dismissed.

"Thank you, Uhura." What an unexpected development. "You'd better run before you wind up stinking like this too."

No parting words, her steps faded quickly, and then it was him and Spock.

"You made mention that your favorite activity is reading. Would you care to inform me of your favorites?"

A question like that was a symphony in Jim's mind. "Fiction or non?"

"Captain's discretion." Spock had no need to guide this part of the conversation. "Which do you find more appealing, Jim?"

 _Look at that, Jimmy_! _We're starting to crack him a little. I wonder if I should_ — "There's one that sticks out in my mind, and it's not a title I think I could ever own, and I'm not sure if I could bring myself to read it again. . ."

"Is it so poorly written that you would dismiss it?" The head-tilt-of-clarification, Spock thought Kirk was daft. "If it is a book you liked, it does not sound as though it merits an honor."

"It's not bad, not at all." He probably shouldn't have brought the damned thing to the Vulcan's attention. Too late to back down, he tried to preemptively wall off the memories this was likely to shake loose. " _Banal Evil: The Logic of Mass Murder_ , written by Starfleet Academy instructor Frederich Gaines, is a history and analysis of some of the most blood-curdling massacres, exterminations, and holocausts to have taken place on earth. I learned of the book’s existence around my seventeenth birthday and searched it out. I'd wanted to read it because I'd thought, no, I'd hoped, that it might offer some kind of explanation behind how and why those sorts of things happened and why they keep happening. . ."

Rather than needle for more information, Spock was willing to wait until Jim either picked up the story or moved to a new subject. Taking a second to build up the fortification to speak on the topic, Kirk settled his mind and opened his mouth. "We have something in common that no one should."

"Is that so?"

"I wish it was dueling tales of Yuletide insanity, catsquatches, and chimney testing." A ripple of survivor's guilt threatened to silence him, but he fought it off. "The circumstances of this shared trait are very different, but the conclusion was supposed to be the same."

The science officer's facial expression didn't change but his obsidian gaze fell and Spock seemed as though he refused to completely bottle the full spectrum of his response to Kirk's claim. Jim read the Vulcan's concern. Rather than hide behind the fun and wonder of Christmas, he took a chance divulging the how, why, and when of his favorite book.

"You were nearly lynched and hurled out into the elements by your murderous cousins at a very tender age. I was one of a handful of wretches to walk away from Taursus IV. That book I mentioned, it didn't have the concrete answers I was looking for, but it was one of the first narratives that granted me insight on the making and practice of genocide. It probably kept me from going off the rails and completely fucking my life up. I might even go so far as to say it's the best book I've ever read."

  
  
  
A twin legacy of horror most unexpected, Spock had to let Jim's disclosure gel before he succumbed to the raw emotion whiplashing his brain. Children were supposed to be innocents, not the collateral damage of a mass execution, nor the cross-bearers of xenophobic violence.

"When the call went out for people to join a new colony, that they desperately needed farmers and others who had agricultural experience, it seemed like a great big adventure."

Having arrived in sick bay not in the best state of mind, Spock tried to think of a way to respond to this revelation in a manner that wouldn't be interpreted as cold or brusk. A string of acceptable words on the tip of his tongue, Kirk gave a hand signal that interrupted Spock's thoughts before his mouth could take action.

"I'm guessing that you had some of that same excitement when you went to California."

The way Amanda built up the anticipation for a visit that was supposed to introduce her son to some of the grand old traditions of her people, Spock was swept up, full of high expectations. "You have made a good guess."

"Whose funeral am I late for?" McCoy broke the spell of their intimate talk and began running a scan and reading Kirk's vitals.

"I was telling our friend here about a certain failed colony."

"The funeral that was almost your own." The doctor's tone had a gentle, reverent edge to it that Spock had not previously heard.

Slight grin of affirmation, Kirk said, "Uh-huh."

"Well, I'm here to change the subject. Do you need another swig of that anti-inflammatory Sha'leyen slipped me the recipe for?" Bones took a detour to the foot of the bed, raised the layers, and didn't let the captain speak for himself. "It's a hell of a lot better but not as good as I'd like. I'm getting you the medicine."

Whatever was going on down there, the pain had dissipated and all he was left with was a sense of discomfort from the nuisance swelling. "I'm sorry you had to see that, Spock. Leave it to Bones not to issue a warning to either of us that he's yanking my skirt up."

"The doctor's focus on treating his patients is almost singular in its intensity. I would not expect him to curtail repeated behavioral patterns that have facilitated the return of good health for so many of the people in his care." Thankfully, Spock seemed unperturbed at Kirk's precipitous southern exposure.

  
  
***

  
  
After their friends' departure, Spock felt odd using that word, friend, to describe other people in relation to himself, there was a lull. Within five minutes, Tralnor was asleep, his body forcing recovery from Deena's interference. "Mollie?"

She was still mentally fitting the events of the previous few days into a form that granted some semblance of a rational edict as to how it all played out. "What is it?"

"Do you think Deena was going to stab anyone?" Raised knowing, the information pounded into his head, that humans were hair-trigger expulsions of sadness/joy/hope/irritation, Spock struggled to level warnings and anecdotes about his mother's people to the reality of their existence.

"I want to say no, then I think, but humans are different."

"I do not understand them."

"Neither do I." She traced along the top of her ear, a tangible reminder that she was supposed to be one of these people.

More disturbing, Spock too was supposed to be an irrational plague of disturbed emotion. "Sarek and Tralnor are the only reason she did not hurt the partygoers. . ."

Tralnor, his sleeping face marred by images and experiences as sent up by his unconscious mind, looked like he was fighting last night's demons. Spock let slip some gratitude that he didn't have to process the fear and shock put out by the guests.

"I don't know how he endures." Mollie said. "Fungus has it harder than we ever will."

  
  
  
Called downstairs, in from the tractor barn, chicken coop, old garage, and make-shift baseball diamond, the family gathered in the dining room. Richie and Tabitha had told Spock and Mollie many times that day about how much fun Noodle Night was.

He knew what noodles were, had eaten them many times, but he lacked the history as to explain what made this food event-worthy. He'd taken to studying the other kids' faces, seeing their familiarity with this dinner as excitement married with anticipation. The MacCormack adults looked on, the merriment of youthful recollections about their own Noodle Nights displayed in their minds.

Given the pleasant expectations of this meal, on the precipice of a molecule of anticipatory delight, he found an end to the joy and withered in Sarek's cold gaze. His greatest fortune of the evening was that he was not required to be at his father's side, thus being able to eat without constant scrutiny. He lined up for the serving table, hanging back with Mollie, Jason, and Tralnor.

Spock was, what Amanda called, withdrawn into his shell. There was no rectifying with her that Vulcans, unlike earth's bivalves, crustaceans, and chicken eggs, did not have shells made of calcium, chiton, or keratin, and could not, therefore, retreat into a shell. He'd dropped out of the conversation and started formulating an exit strategy. It was worth it to skip the food if it meant avoidance of his greatest critic. _Sarek could not have possibly wanted me_. . .

"Ooooooooh, this is great."

"It's like a macaroni and cheese buffet, Johnny." Carter grabbed hold of his companion's upper arm and gave him a good-hearted shake. "And it's beautiful!"

Their visitors had returned and joined the queue. Spock, not wanting to suffer the consequences of his father's interpretation of this particular Vulcan/human interaction, went silent and kept his gaze to his feet. Why did Sarek have to ruin what had become such an overwhelmingly pleasant vacation?

"He's gone, Spock." Tralnor didn't need to elaborate, but Spock wasn't inclined to automatically believe that Sarek would miss such a blazing opportunity to cow his son. "He doesn't want to aggravate tensions."

Mollie got the next spoken line. "We thought you went home. How is it that you're here again?"

"Oh, our moms all thought a sleepover was a super idea. Huh, Johnny?"

A slightly exaggerated nod and Johnny said, "Now my mom can finish with all her Christmas stuff and keep dad out of the cheese logs because it's easier when she only has to worry about my sister."

"You are going to bed on a suspended surface? What object are you sleeping above?" Tralnor put Jason into hysterics.

Johnny and Carter, bewildered, were happy when Martin responded to Jason's telepathic request for back-up. The most significant detail in Spock's mind? An emphasis on sleepovers being an occurrence that was shared with friends. The most common insult not directly tied to his ancestral background was that he was such a freak that even if he lived to the age of six-hundred he'd never have friends.

"I have friends." He needed to hear these words in his own voice, not just think them.

"You've got friends!" Johnny declared.

  
  
***

  
  
Christine Chapel, her desire to impose on Spock overrode the off-putting stench of Kirk's catsquatch musk. While it might be amusing to see a sane person hitting on his virtually unflappable science officer, the captain wasn't comfortable with the Vulcan and the nurse in the same room. "What's my prognosis, Nurse Chapel?"

Irritation riddled her bearing at the interruption of her pursuit. "Dr. McCoy agrees."

"I'm glad that he does." Kirk wasn't going to seek clarification of her disjointed comment since she couldn't cut through the fog and girly eye-batting to give a sensible reaction, she was simply that drunk in her desire. "Now, Spock and I are in the middle of a rather important meeting and we need to have this chin-wag alone."

She mooned over a man with whom there was no chance in a million unthawed hells of getting together with. Jim would bet a kidney that Spock wasn't the kind of person to dole out a mercy fuck just to get someone off his ass. Lovesick, cancelling out all stimuli not from the Vulcan, it took McCoy arriving and escorting her away, and that saved Jim from having to be an asshole to such a woeful person.

"She thinks you're a catch-and-a-half."

"She may think that way, but she will find nothing but disappointment as her fantasy collides with reality."

"I understand you there. I wouldn't fuck her—" Kirk had, again, forgotten who he was talking to.

"You wouldn't fuck her even with someone else's dick is what you were going to say, Captain." Sha'leyen had returned. "The custody sergeant at the first nick I was assigned to as a PCSO, that was possibly his favorite expression."

"I'm. . . I shouldn't have said that." Kirk felt more self-conscious now than when his abused penis was on display for all of sick bay to see.

"Chapel is singular in her dedication to entrapping Lt. Commander Spock." She got the readings from the display above Kirk's head. "She is the kind of person who you can't turn your back on."

Jim could have gone on with the description of the nurse and her antics, but what was the point in re-stating what they all knew? "You didn't come back down here because you missed me."

"I did not." She held out a data padd. "Rather, I am checking in on you as promised, and I brought you both a piece of paperwork. It's a report form for the Vulcan Interstellar Commerce Bureau. They like to know where a catsquatch has emerged and what was done to dispatch it. If you could contribute a narrative, Captain?"

"Sure, it'll be a delight to tell them all about their little stowaway." He tried another one of those smiles that he knew didn't work on her. "We don't have to mention my, ah, piddle and shower-related incidents, do we?"

"There is no need for you to do so, Sir. I included said details in the initial outline of the main report which I have already submitted." She was only being thorough.

Spock had to collect the data padd, while Kirk let his brain swim, and Sha’leyen left for McCoy’s office. "Jim, I will remind you that it was not Sha'leyen's intent to embarrass you. It would not have occurred to her to seek your approval to release information that Vulcans perceive as dry facts."

"Spock, it pissed on me. . ."

  
  
***

  
  
More unexpected than Johnny and Carter's return was the inclusion of a Vulcan dish as one of the smorgasbord offerings. Spock explained that sisel'spah giralar, fermented red noodles, were the shredded roots of the crown thorn bush, nas-patam, that were roasted and stored in amphora-like clay pots until the proper chemical changes took place. The sauce, tangy yet still pleasant, coated the long crimson strands.

"What's so special about red noodles that you have to let them rot for two years?" Carter probably thought he should know more about the food he'd tucked into.

"If you don't ferment them they stay poisonous." Tralnor's nonchalance wasn't where their guests could see it.

"Is that just for us humans?" Carter regarded his dinner, cocked a brow, then took another bite. "Our teacher told us that humans have trouble with Vulcan food."

"No, that is for everyone." Spock said.

One seat over from Mollie, Jason made a comment Spock would look back on years later and regard as rather astute. "Vulcan is a lot like Australia. It's huge, it's hot, and it wants to kill you. Survival meant their ancestors had to find ways of neutralizing some of that, like fermenting roots."

"Just because this one thing is changed into something safe doesn't mean you relax. Even in a city like ShiKhar we're not completely protected from natural elements that may harm us." Mollie was most pleased to be eating something recognizable to her palate.

Johnny, head tilted as if to let a thought fall out where he could find it, asked, "Is it animals, not just poisonous plants?"

"The climate, geography, nuclear fallout, our homeworld is a harsh place." Tralnor got a good twirl on his fork and copied Jason by scraping that blob of noodles onto his slice of garlic toast. He got his mouth closed around that bite and fell off into his own little universe for a second. " _That's so delicious_.”

"And, Fungus, it doesn't have peanut butter anywhere in it." Mollie didn't want to miss an opportunity for a good-natured tease. "I don't think it goes on pasta."

"There are peanut butter noodles, just so you know." Carter said before making and taking a bite of Tralnor's discovery. "Oooooh. Your guys' mom and dad need to show my mom how to make this."

Johnny looked at the delineation where his teeth sank into his toast. "Then Carter's mom can show my mom."

"I want to know more about peanut butter noodles." Tralnor was captivated just by the idea.

"It sounds kind of. . . gross." Spock didn't know how else to put it.

"Nope, nope." Carter started on a narration about Pad Thai and let Johnny sprinkle in the details.

Cream, spices, citrus, peanuts not the star of the dish, the more he heard, the more Spock revised his hasty opinion. Vegetables that retained some crisp, flavors designed to complement one another and not fight to the death in the middle of his face, the option to have absolutely no meat in it at all, ever, this was something he was eager to try. He asked their guests how to spell the name of the food. They didn't know, so they'd all look it up later.

  
  
  
Dinner a success, Amanda and Livia started herding Mollie and the four boys toward the stairs. The moms had something special waiting for them in the music room. Up on the first floor, Justin and Sarek were playing a traditional chess match having taken up in the dimly lit lounge that lead out to the deck.

Waiting on his move since time was irrelevant in this friendly contest, Sarek observed the children. Tralnor and Mollie were drawn into the moment. Spock was aware of being watched by his father. (I do not like that my son reacts to me this way.)

(What would you do to change that?) Justin looked toward the sleepover crew and saw where Spock stiffened and mentally stepped back from his friends.

(My only option is going to make his distaste for me worse than either of us have the capacity to quantify right now.) Eyes closed, a measured breath, Sarek was distinctly uncomfortable.

One of the visitors saw the men in their shadowed hideaway. He waved and Justin returned the gesture. "How come your guys' grandpa is so sad?"

Mollie was clueless. "Our grandfather?"

"We do not have such a person here, Johnny." Spock said.

Johnny's expression said he was unsure where the confusion was coming from. He pointed toward the lounge. "Your grandpa? He's sitting over there with your dad?"

Tralnor ran interference before Spock and Mollie could rectify the misunderstanding. "Sarek has a headache."

Amanda and Livia rushed to get the kids out of the public areas and ensconced in the music room.

(Let me go and set the record straight.) Justin made to rise from the sofa.

(Justin, that is not necessary.)

(It's not a hassle—)

(In the not too distant future, I will visit a series of cruelties upon him as a consequence of the family and clan he was born into.) Sarek stared down the hall after his boy. (I cannot deny him tonight.)

(Far be it from me to question Clan Surak's pedagogy—)

(You will never find yourself in a place where you will be forced to disown your son because of others' misinformed reactions to his parentage. Should Spock choose to identify more with his mother's people. . . It is not Spock's fault that Golic ignorance taints their perception of him. Regardless of the path he takes he will never be good enough for them.)

(Is there any way to circumvent this?) Justin was unsure he'd ever know the pain his friend was in.

(The answer, Justin, you know.)

(Yeah.) He began breaking down the chess set, settling the pieces into their molded box. (And I don't fucking like it.)

(Neither do I.) Facing Justin again, Sarek could not be bothered to completely hide the tsunami of disgust he sometimes felt toward Tradition, Family, and Clan. (I am trapped, beholden to ancient mores. I need you to promise something.)

(Okay.)

(If he decides he wants a more human upbringing, you are to tell him that no matter the circumstance, he will always be my son.)

(I promise.) Justin dreaded what the next year would drop in Spock’s lap.

(He will do well under the tutelage and protection of the Lyr Saan.) Sarek spoke of the contingency plan for the boy if the worst played out.

Their tense conversation might have continued, but Tralnor had come from the music room, intent on following through with something on his mind. The boy ignored all decorum and crawled right up into Sarek's lap. Faces level, Tralnor's right hand formed a loose fist and he placed it against the center of the diplomat's forehead.

"Tralnor, get down." Justin was reaching to grab his kid by the nape of the neck.

Sarek held out a hand, waving Justin off. The adult Vulcan's incredulity almost crept over the line into fear, the engrained rhetoric of abuse and distrust toward the ranks of the mair-rigolauya clashed with what he knew was true. "Tralnor?"

"Three-seconds."

"This is not an imperative.” Warning the boy off had no effect.

Tralnor ignored the man and pressed his fist into the patch of skin between his eyebrows. "Three-seconds. . . One. . . Two. . . Three."

Small hand withdrawn, Tralnor returned to an appropriate place, feet on the floor, no longer entangled with the ambassador. "I think you will be able to sleep tonight."

The boy took off for the music room where the sounds of a popcorn maker and the opening credits of a movie reflected out into the hall.

"I apologize for Tralnor's inappropriate behavior." Justin was fairly mortified at that display.

(I do not want an apology.)

(He's got to learn that he can't be—)

Sarek touched his face. (I might be forced to formally abandon my child because all of the so-called right people are convinced that his human pedigree will turn him into something like your son, as though being that way is a crime.)

(Prejudice is irrational but that doesn't mean it can't exist, even amongst Vulcans.) Justin had seen plenty instances of bigotry while walking the streets of ShiKhar.

Desperation boiled in Sarek’s mind and sounded off in his words. (If I must walk away, perhaps you will still let me see him?)


End file.
